Short Affair Tales from Section VII
by M H E Priest
Summary: This is my collection of responses to the short affair challenges on Section 7mfu (LJ). At the top of each entry/chapter, I'll let you know if it's something other than the mildest K rating.
1. The MaDMAn from UNCLE Affair

Short Affair Challenge for 01.15.18: **The MaDMAn from U.N.C.L.E. Affair**

Prompt: orange and plant

This _revision_ is not beta'd so I take all the blame

For general audiences

999 words if you count only the story and not the title, etc.

~mfu~

The THRUSH man glowered at the U.N.C.L.E. agent who persisted in pawing him, telling him that even he, a THRUSHie, was loved. By him, no less. With much fumbling, pushing, and growling, he finally was able to unlock the door and shove Napoleon into a 5x5 shower stall that had been converted into a cell.

The jailer glared with disgust at Solo, who twisted 180 degrees to face his partner and promptly stumbled.

Illya caught him before he could plant his face, currently plastered with a beatific smile, on the unforgiving tile. He groaned from the pain Napoleon's hug caused him and the weight that increased as Napoleon's legs turned to melting jelly.

"He's all yours, Kuryakin. And if I didn't hate you, I'd wish you good luck, but you deserve him." The sound of the slamming door reverberated uncomfortably for both agents.

"Ouch," muttered Napoleon as Illya gently lowered them both to the floor. "You're conscious!"

"You are entirely too observant."

"You just saved my life, _mon ami_. Falls in the bathroom are the most common cause of death in the home." He patted Illya's back. His smile turned into a frown when he saw Illya's grimace and heard a soft hiss. "Oh, I'm so sorry!"

Illya took a calming breath and said, "It is okay, Napoleon. I will live. Next time I will fall down after being struck on the back by a pipe. That should save my head the same fate." He closed his eyes against the sudden dance the cell started to do. "And I merely saved you from a broken nose and loosened teeth."

Slowly, the pair worked their way into sitting cross-legged, facing each other, knees touching.

"Looking a little peaked, _tovarishch_."

"I am fine." Illya nearly swooned.

Napoleon reached out and caught him by the arm. He hoped his expression fully conveyed the worry and concern he was feeling. "I think you've got a concussion, you poor thing."

Illya gave his partner a puzzled look. "I'm sure it is minor." It wasn't.

"How long have you been awake?"

"A few minutes. Long enough to stand but not to search for possible vulnerabilities in our accommodations." He blinked slowly several times.

"Well, I know what can make you feel better. Knock, knock."

"What?"

"Haven't you ever heard a knock-knock joke?"

"No, and I'm sure my life is better for it."

"Aw, come on. Just say, 'Who's there?'"

Illya rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, and resolutely kept his mouth shut.

"Okay, okay, I'll say it for you, pal o' mine. Who's there?" He paused for effect. "Orange!"

Nothing about Illya changed except for turning a little greenish.

"Now you're supposed to ask, 'Orange who?'"

Illya sighed. "Will it make you happy and then will you stop with the jokes?"

"Yes, yes! Oh, you're the best friend I ever had." Napoleon sat forward enough to plant a kiss on his friend's forehead.

Illya sat there, too stunned to react.

"I love you, Illya. And I love Mr. Waverly, too, and when we get to New York, I'll kiss him. And April and Mark and all the rest of Section II and the receptionists and –"

"That might not be the best idea you've had, my friend," Illya almost sputtered out in his haste to calm Napoleon's plan to demonstrate such a show of affection for their colleagues. "What did they give you, Napoleon?"

"No-no-no!" he said, wagging a finger at Illya. "Do what you said you'd do, and I'll give you another kiss."

Illya would've rolled his eyes again if the last time hadn't made him dizzy. "One kiss was sufficient, I assure you. All right, orange who?"

"Orange you glad to see me?" Napoleon burst into peals of laughter while he held his stomach. He almost fell over backwards but recovered himself. "Good one, huh, Illya?"

Illya closed his eyes against a growing headache. They didn't have time and he didn't have the stomach for this. "Yes, Napoleon, it was the best. Now what did they give you?" he demanded.

Napoleon eyes widened at the junior agent's tone. He decided to let it slide this time. "Oh, something called MDMA and some of the stock truth serum. They said they wanted to try the combination to see if this MadMan – get it? - drug could still make an old serum work."

Now it was time for Illya to look worried, not only for Napoleon but for the possibility that their resistance to old THRUSH serums might be overcome. "That drug is _not_ a good one, my friend. You can become very dehydrated."

"Well, I _am_ a little thirsty. And I did tell Doc Carruthers that he wasn't evil, but what he did was. I don't want him to feel bad about himself."

"That is nice of you, Napoleon. We need to get out of here. We've both been stripped of anything useful. Any ideas?"

From his trouser pocket, he withdrew a name tag that read _Alfred_. "He didn't like it when I blew him a kiss, so I thought I'd take a souvenir to remind me to smack him if we ever meet again." Napoleon grinned like the sly pickpocket he was.

Illya's face brightened with an impish smile. "You'll need to do the honors. I'm a bit ... shaky." He fought back a sudden nausea attack and curled up on his side. It helped marginally.

Napoleon inserted the pin in the lock. "Question for you. Pete and Repeat were sitting on a fence. Pete fell off. Who was left?"

Illya was now fighting to stay conscious. "What?"

Napoleon patiently repeated the riddle.

Not knowing it was a riddle, Illya took it literally. "Why would someone name their child Repete? Were they twins? Is Repete a girl's or boy's name?"

Napoleon tsk-tsked. "I'll ask the doc for a dose of MDMA for you. You sure could use it."

"If you don't shut up and work the lock, I'll beg him for one myself."

the end

©2018


	2. The Consequences of Choices

**The Consequences of Choices**

01.22.18 Short Affair, Section VII (LJ)

Prompts: drink; crimson

~mfu~

Illya knows something is wrong with Napoleon when he isn't anywhere in Medical, despite the bedlam arising from so many agents being treated for mostly minor injuries as the result of a successful major mission on Staten Island.

His own injury, a cut on his chest from a knife-wielding THRUSHie, needed only stitches, the attacker suffering much worse. Now he strides to the locker room where he keeps spare white shirts and black turtlenecks in hopes Napoleon is there cleaning up. He had sustained bruised ribs and a black eye according to the nurse that helped treat him.

Illya raises an eyebrow on seeing a note taped to his locker. The handwriting he recognizes as Lisa Rogers'.

 _Jerry says come to the club. NS in one of the back rooms. Not good._

The change of clothes can wait.

Two minutes later Illya is in the Masque Club. Jerry, the bartender on tonight, raises three fingers to indicate the private room the CEA occupies. Illya nods and makes for the room.

He knocks on the closed door. No answer. More knocking. Still no answer. He lets himself in.

The only light in the room comes from the candle in the Chianti wine bottle, enough for Illya to see Napoleon is well on the way to a significant bender with a half-full bottle of 12-year-old Macallan scotch in the driver's seat.

Illya enters the non-surveilled room without an invitation, thankful Napoleon has chosen it because he has a feeling no one should eavesdrop on their conversation. He sits in the chair across the table from his partner. Even though Napoleon avoids looking directly at him, he sees the despair and self-loathing in the familiar brown eyes. It makes his heart ache for his friend.

The only firm acknowledgement that Illya is there is Napoleon withdrawing the premium vodka from an ice bucket and pouring four fingers into a highball glass. He pushes it a few inches closer to Illya before pouring more scotch for himself.

Illya stares at the drink before him. He is not good in situations like this and doesn't know what to say. He thinks it best that he is simply there for Napoleon.

Many tense minutes go by before Napoleon says, "How many stitches?"

Illya looks down at the crimson curtain of dried blood on his dark-gray coverall. "Twelve. There shouldn't be a scar."

"Good. You have enough of those."

"As do you."

Napoleon huffs at that remark. They drop into another long silence. Illya still doesn't drink, though Napoleon has finished his latest pour and is filling the glass again. Illya waits; Napoleon will talk when he's ready.

Eventually Illya's patience pays off. Napoleon whispers, "God help me, Illya, but I'm glad it was him and not you."

Illya finally takes a long gulp of the vodka to buy time while he thinks how to respond to the statement's tone that tells him Chris's assignment and death is eating at his friend's kind soul. How to assuage Napoleon's guilt? Appeal to him emotionally? Use facts instead? He's unsatisfactory with the former, and the opposite with the latter. He decides to go with his strength.

"It was a sound plan. Mr. Waverly agreed. I was needed more as lead of the rear invasion force."

"I assigned you that position so you wouldn't do the demolition."

"Chris is – was a Navy SEAL. He was well-trained and experienced in all aspects of our work. He, Mac, and I practiced for many hours for this mission. Chris was an excellent explosives man. The best for the job."

"But you're better. Hell, Illya, you even spent a few days teaching the BUD/S candidates last year. They even wanted to hire you! A _Soviet_! How could Chris have been the best for this mission with you a part of it? He'd be alive and instead you'd be …" Napoleon chokes on the unspoken word. The candlelight makes his moist eyes sparkle.

"You don't know that. Demolition is inherently dangerous, my friend. You know _that_. So much can go wrong even in optimal conditions. We don't know why the charge went early."

"I _do_ know _that_ , Illya. Don't you understand what I'm saying? I'm glad _one of our own_ is dead! I let my desire to keep you alive affect the mission assignments. It could've affected the outcome, too. I had a feeling during planning that the demolition would go wrong. I put Chris in that position rather than the best person."

Illya understands. It is difficult to accept it, though. No one, not since his family perished in the war, ever valued his life until Napoleon Solo.

"What would you have done if our roles and skills were reversed? Would you have done the same thing?"

"Yes." No hesitation. It rings true because it is. Napoleon, by saving his life countless times and caring for him when he was convalescing, showed him he was worth being saved, as much if not more than the world. Because of how well they work together, the world stands a better chance of survival with them alive and together, so sometimes their survival comes first, not the mission. They are partners, closer than twins, more than family – another unvoiced reason for many choices made.

"I'm a monster," he whispers, voice quavering, full of self-disgust. His hand tightens to white around his glass. He reaches for the Macallan with the other hand.

Illya quickly covers Napoleon's hand with his, in part to keep from drinking more. The other he uses to gently force the bottle back to the table. "No, you're human."

He holds his breath mentally while he watches a kaleidoscope of emotions play over Napoleon's strong features. They settle into a display of resignation, regret, and relief. He breathes.

Napoleon releases the bottle and places that hand over Illya's, giving it a gentle squeeze. "To absent friends?"

Illya nods. " _Pour les amis absents_."

Napoleon takes his glass with his free hand so he and Illya can keep the reassuring touch they both need. They lift their glasses skyward, beginning the tribute to another valuable life that left the world too early.

the end

©2018

Thanks to CoriKay for the beta.


	3. The Art of the Deal

**The Art of the Deal**

Section VII Short Affair Challenge for 01.29.2018

Prompts: Bargain and Yellow

~mfu~

 _A quiet street in New York City_

Kuryakin hissed a favored Russian profanity as something tripped him and sent him sprawling. He pulled from a breast pocket a very small orange metal box and propelled it along the sidewalk toward his rapidly fleeing partner. "Napoleon!"

Solo stopped. He drew his Special and turned to see a THRUSH goon – one of the three stooges that were chasing them after he and Illya had relieved them of a very important microdot – grab Illya by the hair, wrench him to his knees, and hold a knife to the U.N.C.L.E. agent's throat. He tried not to laugh at the ridiculously incongruous tuft of yellow hair sprouting like corn silk from the top of the thug's fist. Without losing eye contact with his partner or changing the aim of the weapon, Napoleon tried to scoop up the tiny container but ended up kicking it halfway back toward Illya. He started a slow walk toward the four men.

"Hold it right there, Solo," commanded the THRUSH who Napoleon named "Moe." "Give us a free pass to get the 'dot back and I'll make sure this little one" – Kuryakin growled angrily at that description – "and you aren't damaged too badly." To punctuate the threat, he edged the knife deeper into Illya's throat, a millimeter shy of violating skin.

Illya's eyes widened when Napoleon hesitated. "Napoleon, what are you doing?! _Grab it and go!_ "

"Why not kill us both out-right?" Napoleon asked, ignoring Illya's command.

"Better the devil we know, to paraphrase the saying. You and Kuryakin are known quantities. Predictable. Makes it easier for us in the long run. We know you'll do anything to save each other."

Solo chuckled Moe. "Sorry to burst your bubble, but Kuryakin and I put the mission first, and this one is to get the microdot to headquarters at all costs."

"Then I guess we'll kill you both."

"Ah, maybe we can strike a deal."

"Napoleon, what do you think you're _doing_?"

Moe stared at Solo warily. "Go on."

"I get the microdot and leave unharmed and you keep Kuryakin. Give him to Central and your bosses may not kill you for being total failures. After all, he's a bargain at any price."

Illya let loose with a tirade of curses in multiple languages. He finished with "Traitor! You cannot _do_ this!" Moe pulled harder on his hair and drew the blade along the skin. An inch-wide trail of blood slowly drooled down his neck.

"You're right. I can't give you over to the enemy. Sorry, partner." He shifted his aim from Moe to Illya. He fired.

"Umph." Terror, disbelief, and betrayal blossomed on Illya's face as blood blossomed on his shirt. The bullet's impact pushed him backwards.

In his own shock and disbelief, Moe let go of Illya's hair, allowing the body to fall back, its dying eyes slowly shuttering. The other THRUSHies – Curly and Larry, as Solo had named them – inadvertently lowered their weapons, both of which had been trained on Napoleon. "Crap!"

"Okay," Solo said nonchalantly as he waved his gun around, "who's next?"

Curly quickly recovered and had Solo in his sights again.

Napoleon, annoyed you-got-me-look on his face, raised his hands.

"Don't move, Solo. Percy, get the box."

Percy, AKA Larry to Solo, ran hunched over and snatched it.

By now, Moe had shaken off the shock and re-sheathed his knife. "Let's go."

"What about Solo?" asked Curly.

"Leave 'im. Even Waverly won't stand for him murdering his partner. He's done at U.N.C.L.E."

The THRUSH agents took off running at top speed the way they'd come. They didn't even bother to look back at their U.N.C.L.E. counterparts, trusting Solo not to shoot them.

Meanwhile, Napoleon squatted by his partner but kept an eye on the retreating enemy.

A minute later, Illya whispered, "Are they gone yet? I tire of this masquerade. My legs are feeling the strain. The blood pack's disgusting. Too much syrup. This vest is impairing my ability to breathe."

"With all your chatter, it must not be impairing you much." Napoleon smiled when he saw the last bird turn the corner far down the street. "And we're good. You are officially resurrected, Lazarus." He took out his handkerchief and began to clean Illya's neck.

With a snort, Kuryakin ripped the 'kerchief from Napoleon's hand. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself." He dabbed at the superficial wound as he straightened his legs out.

"And you so recently risen from the dead, too. How's the chest?"

"It'll bruise. I never should have invented paper wadding bullets. I knew you'd be anxious to test them on me."

"Stop complaining. The plan worked, didn't it? They have a fake microdot, we have the real one, they think my career is as dead as you, and we can take our sweet time getting back to HQ without fear of being chased and gunned down."

"Why is it that your plans always have me taking the brunt of their sadistic ways?"

"Because, my dear Kuryakin, you could never sell yourself like I can."

Illya rolled his eyes. "That's true. I'm not pompous. I am merely a very good actor."

Napoleon thumped his chest. "You so wound me." He offered Illya his hand.

Illya wrapped his hand around his friend's forearm. Together, they got him to his feet.

"You know, partner mine, you never did tell me what you put on that microdot."

A self-satisfied grin appeared on Illya's face. "Something wonderful they will thank me for someday."

 _The main conference room in the Albany, NY, THRUSH satrapy_

"This is not the information from Central!" yelled the satrap while he shook the paper with the transcribed data.

Moe looked mystified. "It has to be. All of us saw Kuryakin put the microdot in this container when he stole it."

" _Idiots_! You saw only what he wanted you to see!"

A chagrined Moe asked, "Well, sir, then what is it?"

The satrap slammed the paper down. "It's Svetlana Kuryakina's recipe for borscht!"

the end

©2018

Thanks to CoriKay for the beta.


	4. The UNCLE Hulk Affair

**The U.N.C.L.E. Hulk Affair**

Short Affair Challenge for 5 Feb 2018 - prompts: whip & purple

warning: brief descriptions of torture

~mfu~

The mission was exhausting but successful, so Waverly granted Solo and Kuryakin an extra night in Kansas City.

They forced themselves to do the obligatory security check. They found nothing, so fully clothed, they flopped into the beds and were instantly asleep. Neither heard the hiss of a gas being pumped into the room thirty minutes later.

oOo

A brief lull in the interminable beating and torture yielded yet another minutely altered version of the same query already asked numerous times by the gorgeous THRUSH agent. "We know you know Waverly's secret entrance to the New York headquarters, Kuryakin," she cooed seductively. "Our people have seen the two of you blocks away without being seen entering or leaving the known entry points. Tell me where it is, Kuryakin, and I'll stop this." She stroked his swollen cheek with a perfectly manicured, blood-red fingernail and slowly worked it down his bruised and bloodied bare chest.

Illya shuddered involuntarily. His skin was hypersensitive and the fingernail triggered what the Americans called "goose bumps." He stared back at her with the only functioning eye he had at the moment. The look was one of even greater defiance than before. He said nothing.

In frustration, she raked the exposed skin of his upper abdomen with the underside of the fingernail, which had a razor attached to it. She smiled with a great deal of satisfaction at his deep, throaty whine. "You're a stubborn fool, Kuryakin."

Illya panted through the new pain, which finally settled down to a feverish throbbing, matching all the rest of the pain sources. Then her minions started back with the electrical tricks again. He didn't even try holding back his screams this time.

An untouched Napoleon Solo, tied to a ladder chair in the same manner as his friend and partner, had a clear view of everything. This wasn't the first time he'd witnessed his partner's torture, but it never got any easier to endure. In fact, it got worse. Near-rage and the thirst for revenge grew in his belly. He bit down on his lower lip in an attempt to stifle the threats and expletives he wanted to shout at them.

Illya's head finally drooped, unconsciousness from too many minutes of electrical stimulation. Napoleon heaved silent thanks that his suffering was on hold for at least a while.

Their chief captor stood with hands on her hips, staring at the agent and thinking. After a minute, she said to no one in particular, "Get the ammonia capsules. Maybe when he sees Solo getting the same treatment, he'll find his tongue." She walked the few steps to Napoleon. "Time for you to come out to play, Solo," she purred as she shredded his shirt – and on occasion, his skin – with her altered fingernail. He couldn't contain a few hisses of pain. With a few well-placed swipes, the strips fell to his lap, leaving him only with sleeves and the back of the shirt.

Napoleon smiled. If she only knew how much Illya was like his favorite comic book character, Hulk. The Russian was a somewhat socially awkward, emotionally reserved physicist who needed solitude as much as he needed air until someone or something got his ire up. He didn't need to transform into a larger-than-life creature to be formidable. And he certainly wouldn't talk. "You know, torturing me will get you nowhere with Mr. Kuryakin. You'll just make him angry. You won't like him when he's angry."

She laughed. "I don't like him at all!"

Illya jerked back to consciousness, retching at the stink of the ammonia. It took a moment for his good eye to focus and when it did, he saw his tormentors gathered around Napoleon. He shot the woman a look filled with contempt and the promise of violence.

"See? What did I tell you?" said Napoleon.

She harrumphed. "Kuryakin, tell me now and save your precious chief agent the misery already visited upon you." When Illya did not respond, she nodded. The beating and torture began with an eagerness that concerned Solo.

With their captors' full attention on Napoleon, Illya, even with the help of blood-slickened wrists, took 30 minutes to work his hands free of the coarse rope binding them. He'd seen Napoleon abused before but this was different. They were using his partner against him. Outrage grew exponentially with each passing minute.

Solo didn't have to work not to give away his stealthy partner. One eye was nearly swollen shut and the jolts from the cattle prod made his other eye close reflexively.

Illya crept up behind the two henchmen and viciously chopped them simultaneously on the back of the neck. One went down immediately, but the other one Solo had to help to the floor with a kick in the groin. Meanwhile, Illya, tiring despite the burst of adrenaline, made a two-handed fist and bashed the woman's head at the temple. A cold, close-lipped smile built on his face. He dropped to his knees and slumped.

Napoleon knew his partner had run out of gas. "Illya? Untie me now," he commanded. "We need to – _duck_!"

A huge man they hadn't seen before charged into the room swinging a bullwhip. He was too fast for an Illya slowed by pain and exhaustion. As the whip snaked around Illya's neck, the barbed tip sliced into Napoleon's chest several times.

Instinctively, Illya's hands went to his throat. Napoleon watched his face quickly turned a deep red. The big guy started pulling Illya toward him. "Grab it!" Solo shouted as he wrestled to release himself.

Illya snapped out of his growing lethargy to latch onto the whip with both bloody hands. He yanked as hard as he could, then collapsed.

The whip-wielder practically flew over Kuryakin and his comrades, only to be stopped by a head butt from Solo. He was out for the count.

Solo, dazed, looked at Illya. His face was now purple. The sounds that struggled from his mouth were harsh and raspy. " _Illya_! Unwrap it! _NOW_!"

Solo's command was enough to kick his survival instinct into high gear. So slowly, because he could go no faster as the color of midnight closed in on his vision, he began unwinding the whip.

"That's it, _tovarishch_ , you're almost there, Keep at it. That's it. Come on," Napoleon coaxed.

Finally, his airway was freed and air wheezed into his starved lungs. Once the unwelcome darkness retreated a bit, he got to his hands and knees and crawled over the bodies around Napoleon's feet. On the way he confiscated a switchblade that had been used on both of them.

Carefully he cut the rope around his friend's wrists, not trusting his ability to be precise. Which he wasn't; after slicing through the last strands of the rope, he cut Napoleon's forearm. "Sorry," he whisper-wheezed before collapsing again.

Solo's arms were numb so he didn't know what Illya was apologizing for until he brought them forward. Fortunately, the wound was superficial. As soon as his hands were functional, he retrieved Illya's medallion from the woman's decolletage. A trophy, she'd called it.

Next stop was Illya. Napoleon slapped him just hard enough to rouse him. "Illya, you have to help me get you on your feet. I can't do it by myself." The pain was so great he wasn't sure he would remain standing long himself.

Obedient, Illya staggered to his feet. "Hurt."

"I know. We both hurt. But time for us to go, get patched up. Okay?"

Illya blinked his agreement.

"Got something for you." He pressed the medallion into Illya's left hand, eliciting a sigh of relief from his friend. "Let's put it in your pocket." It took both of them to achieve this.

"Let's go." Arms wrapped around each other's waists, they started for the exit.

But Illya stopped them when he saw the deep indentation his blow had done to the woman's head. "I did." It was half-question, half-statement. He turned a pale shade of green; his body quivered, radiating to Solo.

Napoleon nodded,amazed at the strength a human could exhibit when pressed. "Yes, you did. And you saved us. U.N.C.L.E.'s own Hulk." He hoped that little bit of levity would help but on seeing the cold, hard, expressionless mask that was now Illya's face, he knew his friend had crawled into his schizophrenic soul to justify what he'd done so he could live with himself and keep going. With each passing year in their partnership, Illya was coming back to the human the KGB had worked so hard to suppress. It was tough on both of them.

"Go." The tone was completely without affect.

Sometimes Napoleon hated that he was right. "Yeah, let's."

the end

© 2018

Thanks to CoriKay for making this story better.

"Schizophrenic" used here means related to conflicting of inconsistent elements or something characterized by unusual disparity.


	5. The Pepper Bandits Affair

02122018 - The Pepper Bandits Affair

Prompts: Spice and Green

~mfu~

The mission was straightforward: swap an epoxy-like biochemical formula purported to destroy hardened steel with one that yielded a harmless yet incredibly smelly foam. With both THRUSH and La Cosa Nostra in a bidding war to purchase it from its scientist/creator, it was necessary to engineer a break-in before either criminal organization could obtain it. And because it called for a high level of stealth, Waverly assigned the mission to his most accomplished team of Solo and Kuryakin.

This meant they'd carry the usual tools of cat burglars but not of UNCLE agents. They weren't thrilled that they wouldn't have their guns or their UNCLE IDs, but if caught, they'd have a hard time explaining them.

"I see three possible entry points," stated Illya, tapping the home's blueprints with his finger.

Napoleon considered the choices for a moment, then nodded in agreement. "I think we're good to go."

"Dr. Hoefler is scheduled to speak at a seminar at Hudson University tomorrow evening, followed by a reception. That would be an opportune time."

"Agreed. I look forward to working with my pooseycat again," Napoleon said, lapsing into his Inspector Javert persona.

Illya furrowed his brow. "I told you to never call me that again."

"Oh, meow. Didn't mean to ruffle your fur."

Illya bared his teeth and growled threateningly.

"Kitty have a thorn in his paw?"

"No. A pain in my neck." He made sure Napoleon didn't miss his teasing smile.

"Me-ouch."

oOo

The next evening, the partners stood at the back door of Hoefler's home in Brooklyn. Napoleon, clad in form-fitting navy-blue fatigues and watch cap, face smeared with black greasepaint, picked the lock while Illya, similarly turned out in black, had look-out duty.

"Hurry, Napoleon, we don't have all night."

"Patience." Solo grimaced as he twisted the pick and the mechanism finally yielded to his expertise. "That couldn't have taken more than six seconds."

"Ten. You're slipping."

Napoleon raised an arm as if to backhand Illya and gave him a perturbed look. Illya merely cocked an eyebrow.

Without a sound, Napoleon opened the door. He entered the kitchen first and after surveying it and finding nothing untoward, he moved farther in. Illya sidled up behind him.

It was a typical kitchen. However, something Napoleon spotted on the table sparked his curiosity. Next to the salt-and-pepper grinders was a squat, green tin container with small holes in its lid. He picked it up with a gloved hand and sniffed. Almost immediately, his eyes scrunched closed and he inhaled sharply in readiness to sneeze.

Illya recognized the aroma and quickly clamped his hand over his partner's nose and mouth, dampening the sneeze's sound.

Napoleon signaled he was okay. He returned the tin to its place and straightened his shoulders. Suddenly his body tensed just as Illya sniffed then whispered, "I smell -"

A hand on Illya's arm cut him off. He peered over Napoleon's shoulder.

Together they said _sotte voce_ , "Dog."

Somehow neither agent had heard the click-click of claws on the linoleum. A German shepherd stood a few feet in front of Napoleon. Its lips curled to expose fangs. A pant later, it began to snarl.

Illya tensed as well. He hated dogs, but he hated German shepherds most of all. He pushed aside the memories of their viciousness during the siege and occupation of Kiev and took a deep breath to steady his nerves and left hand, which was reaching for the container. _It worked before; it will again_.

Napoleon knew what Illya was up to. He did his part to distract the animal by moving the fingers of his right hand and humming Brahms' _Lullaby_. It was working; the dog hadn't moved closer nor had the snarling increased.

Gently, Illya gripped the tin and in the next millisecond, was shaking cayenne pepper in the dog's face.

It worked. The dog sneezed, whined, and backed away.

Napoleon took the container from Illya. "I'll keep him occupied."

Illya nodded, ecstatic that he wouldn't be in the creature's presence any longer. "Careful, Napoleon. It'll be very mad once it recovers." He took off for the library where the safe's installers said it would be.

Thanks to their instructions and his own ability, he had the safe open in seconds and exchanged formulas. He closed the door and locked it, checked the room to make sure nothing was disturbed, and headed back to the kitchen.

He found Napoleon on his haunches, petting the still-whimpering but now subdued dog whose snout was resting on his thigh. Illya sighed. "Must be a bitch."

"Ah, you know, music, savage beast..."

"Breast," Illya automatically corrected.

Napoleon shot him an irritated look. "C'mon, we need to make this place look like there was a robbery interrupted by my girl here."

It only took a few minutes to bring some disorder to the house. Napoleon stood with his hands on his hips, the dog leaning on his leg, and declared, "Looks good to me."

Illya held up a finger. He dropped the black velvet sack he had carried as part of Plan B near the buffet. From the drawer Napoleon had opened earlier, he withdrew a handful of silverware and dropped the pieces near the bag.

"Nice touch." Solo stroked the head of his latest conquest so Illya could confidently move past them and back into the kitchen.

Once in the car, they removed the greasepaint – it wasn't a good idea to draw attention to themselves on public streets.

"You know, Illya, if we ever decide to leave U.N.C.L.E., we could go into business for ourselves as cat burglars. We could leave behind some cayenne at every scene as the signature of the _Pepper Bandits_."

Illya wiped off the last of the black goo from his face and considered what Napoleon had said. "That is a possibility." Leave it to him to come up with an idea that might work for them now. Ground pepper had been used as a weapon in ancient India and China. Even ninjas had deployed it to incapacitate their opponents. Why couldn't it work for field agents?

However, the delivery system would need to be more reliable. As he drove, he started thinking how he could aerosolize pepper. That would put another non-lethal tool into their arsenal.

When Illya didn't speak for a while, Napoleon said, "Maybe we should be called the _Spice Boys_?"

the end

©2018

Thanks to CoriKay for yet another valuable beta.


	6. The Crime and Punishment Affair

**The Crime and Punishment Affair**

Short Affair Challenge for 02.19.2018

Prompts: Work and Black

Tag to _The Secret Sceptre Affair_

Warning: Violence

~mfu~

"Dave? Ben. It's confirmed – Kuryakin murdered Allan."

"I _knew_ it! That damn Russkie will pay."

"What about Napoleon? He's still partnering with that sonuvabitch!"

"Don't worry. We'll take care of him, too. When will they be back?"

"LaGuardia 0430 tomorrow," answered the Section III agent.

oOo

Napoleon signaled for a taxi, while Illya leaned against a nearby post.

"Wish we could've stayed longer in London," the Cambridge graduate stated. "There is this delightful restaurant that serves the most glorious Pakistani food."

"No fair making me hungry, _tovarishch_. I just want to go home and to bed without stopping at some all-night deli to fill your hollow leg. Ah, here's one," he said as the cab stopped. He held the door open for his partner.

They quickly settled in. Napoleon gave the cabbie the address of their building. Suddenly, a glass partition rose from the driver's bench seat at the same time the back doors locked and gas filled the compartment. There was no time for them to react. Illya's head came to rest on the window while Napoleon's eventually ended up on Illya's lap.

oOo

Kuryakin woke to a splitting headache, chills, and the awareness that he was wearing only his briefs and expertly strapped to a metal table.

And they had thought it safe to hail a taxi at that time of morning. Sometimes, he bitingly complained about their carelessness. But not today. His head hurt too much.

Slowly, he looked first to his left. There was Napoleon, likewise bound but to a chair a few feet away. His chin rested on his chest, he was breathing, and at least he had a shirt on – albeit unbuttoned – and trousers.

He surveyed the rest of the room. The walls and floor were taupe, the ceiling light tan. There were two cameras, three covered recessed lights, no windows or mirrors, and a door without a handle to his right. _Interrogation and torture room_ , he thought. _I get to go first. Lucky me_.

"Napoleon?" he said loudly. When no response, he said more loudly, "Napoleooooonnnn!"

That was enough to get a reaction. Solo smacked his dry lips and squinted his eyes. "I don't remember drinking that much on the plane."

"You didn't. We were gassed."

"Oh, yeah. Unfortunately coming back to me." He opened his eyes fully. "At least you get to lay down."

"At least you're clothed."

The door opened to reveal an average-looking man noted only by his lack of anything distinguishable.

Napoleon blinked at the man. "Dave?"

"Right on the first try, Napoleon."

"You _know_ this man?" Illya's question was more like an accusation.

"What the deuce is going on?" Anger replaced Napoleon's earlier incredulity.

"Your partner here has been found guilty of murdering Colonel Morgan and is sentenced to a death by a thousand cuts." Quickly he produced a knife as he stepped to Illya's side. "It will be slow and agonizing," he said as he carved an X into the agent's exposed abdomen.

Illya screamed. Usually it takes a moment for the pain of trauma to register, but not this time. He surmised the knife must be coated with something strongly acidic. He panted to cope with the pain.

"Stop this!" yelled Napoleon. He struggled against his restraints but they weren't budging. "You know this isn't right! We can work this out."

Dave stormed over to stand in front of Napoleon. "He should be killed just because he was KGB. Hell, he probably still _is_. You know he must've killed Americans. And _you_ agreeing to be his partner. Letting him murder Allan, and then not sanctioning _him_." He paused to wipe the spittle from his lips. "Treason bears the same punishment as murder, but because of Korea and the Company, your death will be quick." He turned to Kuryakin. "Here. Hold this for me, willya?" He sank the knife into the agent's thigh.

Illya gasped and choked at the intense pain. He struggled to stay conscious, to not give into the agony. He needed to be awake and there for Napoleon, if only to give him strength by diverting his attention.

"You _bastard_!" Napoleon rocked the chair in hopes that maybe it would shatter when it fell and allow him to get loose. But he knew it was futile; they were in a CIA black room and the chairs were unbreakable.

But his ribs weren't. Dave, who had slipped on brass knuckles, slammed his fist into Solo's side. The crunch of breaking bone covered Napoleon's scream.

"Stop!" Illya shouted. The act amplified the pain in his leg. "How can you do this to your brother in arms?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"He's no longer my brother since he left the Company and joined U.N.C.L.E.. He's been dead to me since he partnered with the enemy."

Napoleon spat blood. Illya hoped it was from a mouth injury but feared it came from a punctured lung. "He's not the enemy, Dave," Napoleon said quietly.

"You _both_ are," Dave hissed venomously. He smashed his hand into Solo's abdomen hard enough to push the chair over. He smiled grimly when Napoleon's eyes fluttered and he strained to breathe.

He turned back to Kuryakin. This time he grinned widely as he twisted the knife. He laughed when Illya couldn't arch his back against the leather strap across his hips.

Instead of a scream, curses in several languages spewed from his mouth. "I will kill you," he said in a tone meant to strike fear and belief this would happen.

Napoleon recovered enough to speak a few words at a time. "Listen to … me, Dave. Allan had … gun on me and … one of his own. Illya … warned him. Allan shot first." He stopped for a moment to catch his waning breath. "If Illya hadn't … I'd be … dead along with … an innocent."

Dave stood over Napoleon. "Look me in the eye and tell me that's the truth."

He looked Dave squarely in the eyes and declared, "Truth." Then he was out.

Illya heard the too-familiar weakness that told him his partner was slipping into unconsciousness. He cried out, "Napoleon!" That robbed him of the last of his energy and he, too, blacked out.

oOo

Napoleon's return to awareness started with the beep of the cardiac monitor and the burbling of water that later he'd realize was due to a tube in his chest. His first coherent thought was of his partner. Someone was at his bedside but it wasn't him. The beeping accelerated. "Illya?" he whispered. He opened his eyes, surprised to find a morose Ben Taylor, another member of Morgan's team who had, along with Napoleon and Dave Carter, joined the CIA after the war.

"Where's Illya?" he asked, barely masking the growing panic.

"Still in surgery, Napoleon. Repairing his leg will take some time. And he needs a lot of stitches to his abdomen."

Napoleon closed his eyes in thanks that Illya was still alive.

"Uh, Napoleon, I have a confession to make."

He reopened his eyes. "I'm listening."

Ben studied his hands. "This is all my fault. You and Illya. There was a rumor that Illya killed Allan. I called Dave. A little later my my section head validated it, but I didn't hear anything else. If I'd listened, I would've known the killing was justified." He sighed, dejected. "As soon as I read the summary report, I headed over to the black house. Long story short, I told him and his partner, who hates Russians even more than Dave, the whole truth. They even performed first aid. I called for an U.N.C.L.E. medical team." He paused to give Napoleon a chance to say something. When that wasn't forthcoming, he continued, "I'm so sorry, Napoleon. I'll understand if you never forgive me. I doubt I'll ever forgive myself."

Napoleon was still too furious and disappointed to speak. That was a good thing because he was pretty sure he'd tear into the agent, who was part of the band of brothers that had formed in Morgan's unit, almost as mercilessly as Illya would.

"I resigned before Mr. Waverly could fire me. They're letting me stay long enough to apologize to Illya. That is, if he'll let me." Finally, he looked up at Napoleon.

The usually soft brown eyes were hard with anger. "Don't even think about it. He's likely to use the IV tubing as a garrote."

Ben nodded in understanding, stood, and shuffled out of the room.

Watching him leave, Napoleon wasn't sure Ben's punishment fit the crime. He knew Illya would think it didn't.

the end

© 2018

Thanks to CoriKay for the beta.


	7. Cutter's Way

**Cutter's Way**

Context for the story: Excerpts from Jules Cutter's personal log

~mfu~

 **1948**

Alexander Waverly and I have known each other since I left the US Army to join the SAS in 1941. When an injury sustained during a mission sidelined me for a while in '43, I instructed the new recruits. And I was damn good at it. No surprise when Alex asked me to command U.N.C.L.E.'s new survival school. I agreed on the condition that I do this my way. Smart man, that limey.

After all, I'm saving them so they can save the world.

 **1955**

Alex never ceases to amaze. Every dossier I reviewed today for the upcoming class shows all are viable candidates to survive school and become agents. As usual, some are exceptional.

One stands out for me. Guy by the unlikely name of Napoleon Solo. Well-to-do family. One granddad is a retired admiral, the other a former ambassador.

He's got smarts, that's for sure. Finished high school in three years, some fancy Ivy League college in three and magna cum laude. Philosophy major. Worthless. But did take a wide variety of courses. Definitely well-rounded in academics.

He didn't neglect sports. Lettered in lacrosse. Track and field. Broke the school record for javelin throw.

Korea vet. Served under Allan Morgan – stellar. Silver Star, Bronze Star, and Purple Heart. Interesting that he and Ben Taylor, another one of Morgan's people, both left CIA to join U.N.C.L.E. Well, at least they did well at Langley, Solo more so than Taylor.

One worrisome thing - he's got a long arrest record but charges always dropped. Granddads' connections? Help?

And there's a glaring weakness: women. Could be his downfall.

oOo

Women may be a problem for Solo, but that man can charm his way out of pit full of teed-off vipers so that'll make up for this flaw. His ability to strategize and problem-solve is outstanding. Granddads schooled him well in diplomacy and military matters. Best damn graduate of this school. His records will probably never be broken. I'll bet he'll even make it to retirement age for field agents. Wouldn't be surprised if one day, he's Section I.

 **1956**

I don't believe it! Waverly got his Soviet. I tried to talk him out of it, but the man wouldn't listen. I even exercised my veto, which was part of the agreement, but the limey overrode it. Said take the Russkie or leave the school.

It's not my way to back down, but swallowing my pride is less important than running this school. So swallow I did.

Kuryakin's dossier is heavily redacted. That fact tells me he's KGB. It does say he's naval intelligence at least. Height and weight makes me think he's like a string bean picked too early, barely heavy enough for the field. Blond hair – definitely needs a decent cut – and blue eyes. Too pretty, delicate even, for the real work of spies and agents. My guess he's a lure.

Can't believe U.N.C.L.E. is picking up the tab to send him to Cambridge. What the hell does a doctorate in physics have to do with being an enforcement agent?

My hardest task during his stay will be to keep him alive, including stopping myself from killing him just on general principle; the war may be cold, but operative word here is "cold." Hope his classmates have the self-control I have.

oOo

This little pipsqueak commie beats Solo's shooting record during assessment! After he ensured the chamber was clear and the clip ejected, he just stood there. Waiting for orders, no doubt, like a good little Soviet robot. Doesn't look at me, doesn't gloat. Expressionless. So I say, "What are you waiting for, Kuryakin? A gold star? Move out!" He bows his head a couple inches and leaves. Enigmatic little bastard.

oOo

End of Week 1 and Kuryakin has yet to attend a social hour. He either retires to the sitting area in his barracks to read or heads for the gym by himself. Can't say as I blame him. He's stand-offish but polite but he reads his fellow students as I read 'em: keep your distance, Russkie. Sometimes the hostility towards him is palpable.

Under that cool exterior, he has to be hyper-vigilant. All this will wear him down and he'll quit of his own accord.

He must know he suffer an "accident." If he does, Waverly will close this school down in a heartbeat.

oOo

The Russian is a whiz in demolitions. He's a little disturbing, though. Gets this manic glint in his eyes and this weird little smile. That should be enough to fail him. But I have the feeling Waverly will have my keister if I don't pass him. Maybe if I keep him here to teach demolitions, see if he can hang – maybe blow up – himself.

oOo

Sat in on the first few classes Kuryakin taught. Despite the obvious animosity toward him, he managed to turn that around, engaging, hell, even exciting the others about demolitions. His instructions were clear, succinct. Drilled it into them that attention to detail and caution meant the difference between life and death for them. Answered questions and worked patiently with those having trouble. Demanded nothing less than excellence from them and himself. Surprisingly, they were eager to please him.

Still can't believe he toppled a few of Solo's records.

Maybe he is an U.N.C.L.E. agent and no longer KGB.

 **1967**

Can't say I wasn't disappointed that Solo didn't come to help with this THRUSH infiltrator situation. Kuryakin came instead. He's now relaxed, confident, assertive. With Solo destined for Section I, Kuryakin will make a fine CEA.

 **1968**

Week 1 and I wind up with a broken leg. I need surgery, so someone will have to take over while I'm off-island. So I asked Waverly for someone who could use this opportunity as a try-out for my job when I retire.

He sends me Kuryakin. Says the man can use a change of scenery. I know better.

Scuttlebutt has it that Solo resigned with only a few THRUSH satrapies left to take down and never said as much as a fare-thee-well to his partner. And no reason for the sudden departure. Inexcusable.

Kuryakin came today. I expected to see grief, sadness, even anger. I expected to see me in him after I lost my partner in a battle with Nazis in Argentina in '46.

I saw only emptiness contained by bone, muscle, and skin. Damn. U.N.C.L.E. may have lost him, too.

the end

© 2018

Thanks to CoriKay for the beta. Best one there is probably.

Section 7 Short Affair Challenge for 02.26.2018

Prompts: Retire and Gold


	8. The Closed Encounters Affair

**The Closed Encounters Affair**

"I appreciate your concern for my welfare, Mr. Solo," said the president of a company that made firearms for THRUSH. "I have no such misgivings about my client. We have ... an arrangement that for me is quite lucrative and safe. You see, I know where the bodies are buried. So to speak. I am protected."

Napoleon Solo nodded. "That may be so, Mr. Schmitt, but people who deal with THRUSH usually find themselves regretting it."

"That is if they survive," Illya Kuryakin added. "The organization is composed of ruthless people who think nothing of ending someone's life if that person displeases them. Contracts are meaningless." The Russian, uncomfortable in the man's presence from the start, had come to despise Schmitt's too-familiar arrogance and condescension. The man may be second-generation American but his attitude was all Nazi.

"Gentlemen, please, no more. I intend to continue to do business with THRUSH. And I intend to have some … fun with you." Schmitt pressed a button on his desk.

The agents shot each other warning looks and reached for their weapons. A ceiling tile above where they sat opened, exposing two long metal tubes.

They were unconscious from tranquilizer darts before their Specials cleared their holsters.

oOo - _NS_

Napoleon slowly became aware of the smell of gunpowder and creosote and of his hands cuffed behind his back. His stomach threatened to revolt but a few deep breaths calmed it. He chanced opening his eyes.

He found himself in what appeared to be a warehouse. There were gun crates of varying sizes and piles of spent shell casings. _Test range_ , he thought. He was lying in a graveyard of shattered mannequins. It reminded him of the fractured bodies he saw in Korea. Mostly, it reminded him of Henry, the Cheyenne Indian and his best friend. Nausea went from mild to severe.

Shuddering, he shoved that memory back into the Korea mind vault. A few more deep breaths decreased the queasiness to tolerable levels. Now to find Illya, but first, out of the handcuffs.

He worked the left cuff link into position to blast through the chain. That he still had the cuff links and probably the rest of the ordinance he carried told him Schmitt's security team wasn't THRUSH. He ignored the minor singe of his flesh.

He stood. The increased dizziness almost felled him but he kept his feet with effort. He'd have to take his time looking for his partner.

"Illya!" he shouted. A millisecond later, the air squealed with the activation of a PA system.

"Now that you've acclimated yourself and even freed your hands," Schmitt said, "I have started the timer on the explosives that will take out this obsolete building. You have a choice, Mr. Solo. You may leave now, unmolested, or attempt to find Mr. Kuryakin. He is, um, _stuffed_ in one of the containers before you. The explosives will begin to detonate one by one in just under five minutes." There was a pause then a laugh. "He is gagged as well, so don't expect him to respond." The PA system shut down with a snap.

Napoleon's heart pounded in his chest. There was only one choice as far as he was concerned. He shuffled as fast as he could to the closest crate.

oOo - _IK_

He is sharing a dark, tight hidey-hole created by the German bombs with Lana and Misha. He's here because Mama told him to take his little brother and sister to hide, to protect them.

He watches the Nazi troops march into his bombed-out street. He stiffens when he hears a Nazi bellow. How does the devil know his name? Misha and Lana squirm behind him. He pats them with shaky hands. He must protect them. He can because he's seven and a big boy. They are babies.

oOo - _NS_

Several times, Napoleon almost slipped on casings and plastic body parts before he reached the crates. His head was spinning one way, his stomach the other, impairing his ability to track the time left.

 _Which_ _one_ _? There_ _are_ _so many._ Schmitt said "stuffed," so the crate must be small and Illya had a history of fitting into small spaces. "Illya! Make some noise so I can find you!" he shouted. He waited for a few seconds he didn't have to spare.

Nothing.

oOo - _IK_

Devil is getting closer! He resists whimpering, but Misha and Lana are trembling badly and likely to whine and cry. He slaps his hands over their mouths; their teeth bite into his wrists.

oOo - _NS_

Napoleon knocked on crate after crate, straining his ears to hear flat sounds that would indicate a full container, hopefully filled with his friend. When the dizziness became overwhelming, he continued his quest on his knees. He paused only to retch.

oOo - _IK_

He is suffocating with fear and dead air as the Nazi draws ever closer. He will fight with all he has to save Misha and Lana. His father and their distant gypsy relatives have taught him well the art of defense of self and the innocent. He will try to kill the devil.

oOo - _NS_

Napoleon almost missed the dull thud of a long gun crate. Hurriedly, he shoved the one atop it to the floor. He raised the lid and there he was – a dirty rag in his mouth, hands behind his back, knees bent up to his chest, eyes narrowed with defiance and murderous intentions.

"Illya, it's Napo-" A foot to his head knocked him down.

oOo - _IK_

He feels elated having struck down the German who knows his name. He screams, " _Demon natsi_!" but he can't hear the words. Lana and Misha pull at his arms so hard he can't get out to end the devil's life. He keeps screaming and still there is no sound.

oOo - _NS_

Napoleon struggled to his feet, the tornado in his head at its worst yet. He kept his distance from Illya's flailing legs. He knew if he could understand what Illya was saying, he could reason with the man.

Or not. _Damn. Flashback_.

He staggered to the head of the crate. Though Illya's position kept him from turning his legs into lethal weapons, he was still able to make painful contact with Napoleon's head and chest.

Finally he was close enough to slug Illya just enough to knock him senseless momentarily. He quickly pulled the gag out. "Wherever you are, my friend, come back. We need to get out of here. _Now_."

oOo - _IK_

He's dazed but recoups quickly, the need to protect his charges fueling his recovery.

" _Nyet_! _Demon natsi_!"

There is an explosion. He looks in that direction and sees his family in the doorway with flames devouring them as they scream in agony.

" _MAMA! PETRO!_ "

oOo - _NS_

The pain, desolation, and despair in Illya's raw howl kicked Napoleon in his gut. He wanted to comfort his friend, tell him it was just a memory, but they were out of time.

Another bomb exploded, and Illya wailed again. Napoleon roughly pulled him from the box and slung him over his shoulder.

oOo - _IK_

" _Nyet! YA ne_ _zalyshu_ _Lanu_ _i_ _Mish_ _a_ _!_ "* Illya shouts at the top of his lungs.

He fights, to no avail, for his release from the strong arms restraining him. Misha and Lana fade from his sight but not from his heart.

oOo - _NS_

Napoleon thanked his reliable companion, adrenaline, for his ability to stay upright and hang on to the perpetual motion machine named Illya. He got them to a door he hoped opened to the outside when another bomb exploded. His knees threatened to give way when he realized that was very close to where Illya had been sequestered.

Luck was still with him. The door opened outward so shouldering through it was a bit easier. Now they were outside as well. He ran as fast as he could with his load as the explosions started coming closer together.

An especially violent detonation threw them to the ground. They landed in a tumble. They came to rest on their sides, a few inches apart and facing each other.

Once Illya caught his breath, he said, "Napoleon." It was a whisper and an apology.

"Good to have you back, _tovarishch_."

They watched the conflagration in silence for a few minutes, too drained to move, much less remove Illya's handcuffs.

oOo - _IK_

Illya's eyes stung with unshed tears.

"You never cried for your mother and Petro, did you?" Napoleon asked.

Illya sighed and continued to watch the white and blue flames. "There were other … more pressing matters."

Napoleon nodded. "There isn't anything pressing at the moment," he said gently. "I think there's time now."

He turned his gaze to his friend. He saw in the sad, compassionate eyes the permission to release what he'd kept locked away for decades – his soul-consuming grief, his failure to protect Lana and Misha. His body began to quiver. He rolled toward Napoleon and buried his face in his shoulder and sobbed.

oOo - _NS_

Napoleon, still too woozy and exhausted to remove Illya's restraints, barely had the energy to put his arm around his grieving friend, whose body trembled like an earthquake. He rested his cheek against Illya's hair.

 _It's time for me, too._

He let the tears flow for Illya, his family, and – finally – Henry.

the end

© 2018

Thanks to CoriKay for her excellent suggestions.

*"No! I will not leave Lana and Misha!" [at least according to the English-to-Ukrainian translator I used]

Section 7 Short Affair Challenge for 03.05.2018 for the prompts _s_ _tuffed_ & _w_ _hite_


	9. Knowing When to Dance

Knowing When to Dance

 _The Finny Foot Affair_ (Season 1) missing scene and tag

~mfu~

The helicopter bucked unexpectedly, tossing Kuryakin against the window. "Ah!" he cried out softly from the increased pain in his wounded arm. Almost immediately, the bleeding grew precipitously. Illya knew the bullet had moved and damaged more tissue. At least the blood vessels in the deltoid muscle were small so bleeding out would take some time. He clamped his left hand even tighter on the wound. "Napoleon, please, no aerobatics today." He swallowed. "And hurry."

"That bump wasn't intentional, my friend. Squall at 12 o'clock." Solo's tone was tight nonchalance, which he usually saved for occasions such as these.

Straight ahead of them was an ugly, dark blue sky. The sheets of rain were so thick they were clearly visible. The wind, as the 'copter drew closer, became more and more vicious.

"Illya, I better fly around this. Think you can hold on a little longer?" When there was no response, Napoleon took a quick glance over his shoulder. _Damn!_

Illya was at best semi-conscious. The sleeve of his hazmat suit was now fully red. If he flew around the dangerous weather system, Illya stood little to no chance of making it to U.N.C.L.E.-London. But if he flew through the storm, he'd need Illya's assistance; without it, they most likely would be doomed.

The storm made the decision for him when it suddenly was upon them. It buffeted the 'copter, flinging both agents around the small space.

"Kuryakin!" Napoleon shouted in his command voice. "Stay with me! Help me fly this machine so we can _both_ have lunch."

Illya's eyes fluttered open. "Napo-" He was interrupted by a particularly severe bit of turbulence.

A sudden dive had Napoleon working the collective with both hands. "Illya! Take the stick _now_!"

Long-ingrained obedience to commands had the Soviet reaching with his right hand for the cyclic despite the painful effort. That flooded him with adrenaline and cleared his head. Amazed he could do anything with that arm, he gripped the stick as hard as he could so his blood-coated hand wouldn't slip.

Flying helicopters was his forte, something he could do in his sleep, virtually instinctual for him. Napoleon, on the other hand, was the superior fixed-wing pilot but was very good with a chopper. Together, he knew they could do this.

So they flew the chopper together, as if they'd practiced this particular dance a thousand times to perfection. Only rare, calm, one-word instructions came from Illya, which Napoleon performed immediately and flawlessly. The only thing that betrayed their apparent composure was the sweat that drenched them both.

As quickly as they'd entered the squall, they were out of it. Bright blue, clear sky stretched ahead of them.

Illya yielded the stick back to his partner. "Napoleon, if it is okay with you, I'll pass out now." His eyes rolled upwards and his body rolled to the right until it was against the fuselage.

Solo frantically looked for a place to land. He had to get the bleeding stopped. Fortunately, less than a mile away, there was a field of some sort of crop that would serve his purpose. Waverly wouldn't be pleased with having to pay damages to the farmer, but it was cheaper than replacing a highly trained and effective agent.

And it would be impossible to replace his best friend and partner.

oOo

Napoleon playfully smacked Kuryakin's chest. "Recuperate!"

Illya scowled at him. "I don't need to recuperate. I am fine. The wound is insignificant."

"'Insignificant' in the world according to Solo does not include two units of blood."

"Perhaps your world needs expanding."

"The only thing that needs expanding is your social life, my friend. How about we find two of the fairer sex who would like to trip the light fantastic when I get back from Norway?"

"I'm not sure… What is this 'trip'?"

Napoleon chuckled. "Dancing, _tovarishch_. Just dancing. Unless, ah, you're _really_ not up to it and only have the strength to lounge around in some pub eating fish and chips and swilling pints of the local brew," he said with a lassitude he hoped would make Illya put the kibosh on that idea.

Illya's face lit up like the sun. "That is an excellent suggestion, Napoleon! There is a superb public house near Piccadilly that is one of my favorites."

Napoleon's mouth opened but he didn't have a comeback. How could he deny his injured friend? And Illya knew it.

Illya snickered. "Hoisted with your own petard, my friend."

Napoleon snarled. "Sneaky Russian."

Illya gave him a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. " _Hungry_ Russian."

the end

© 2018

Thanks to CoriKay for the beta – made this story better, too.

Short Affair Challenge for 03.12.2018 – prompts of lounge and dark blue


	10. First Meeting

**First … Meeting**

Time frame: Pre-series

First entry in the FIRSTS series

~mfu~

"Ah, Mr. Solo, nice of you to join us."

Alexander Waverly was sitting, but the other man in his office stood quickly at Napoleon Solo's entry. Waverly knew they were assessing each other, as any highly trained and still-breathing U.N.C.L.E. agent did on coming into a new situation. Solo, undoubtedly, was thinking Illya Kuryakin was quite young and small for an agent and whose unique sense of fashion was the polar opposite of his own.

On the other hand, Kuryakin was likely thinking Solo was something of a peacock – and an over-confident one at that.

"Apologies for the delay, sir. I was dressing after my work-out when I received your summons."

"Yes, yes, of course. Mr. Solo, this is Mr. Kuryakin, Section II, from the London, Berlin, and Paris, um, stations."

They shook hands, with Kuryakin bowing slightly at the waist. Without delay, each man took a seat.

"Mr., uh, Kuryakin is here for your next assignment. This will involve the destruction of a laboratory known to be involved in the production of a gas that reportedly induces extended if not permanent and painful paralysis. Nasty business that." He tapped the thin manila folder in front of him. He could tell Solo had noted the small orange dot, signifying Risk Level 2, on the label tab.

"But, sir, I can do this without anyone's assistance."

"I have little doubt you could, Mr. Solo, but this is a high-priority target and U.N.C.L.E.'s top demolitions expert is necessary to increase the likelihood of success to 100 percent. For this mission, you will assist Mr. Kuryakin."

Solo glanced at his temporary partner. The pale face was parked in neutral, intense blue eyes still focused on Waverly.

Kuryakin shifted minutely but Waverly caught it. He was surely aware of the scrutiny and must be wondering if Solo had a problem with Soviets. Also obvious was that Kuryakin wanted to speak but was hesitant to speak freely at this stage in his association with both men. Reports from Europe indicated he was slowly overcoming this particular harsh standard enforced by the Soviet Navy and the KGB.

"Is there something you wish to add, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Perhaps it might be a good idea to inform Mr. Solo of my credentials in demolitions, sir."

"Oh, your reputation in blowing stuff up precedes you, Mr. Kuryakin," interjected Napoleon pleasantly. "As does your setting some records at Survival School."

Illya's lips twitched in an effort to block a smile. "One can only do the best one can."

"Mr. Solo, since you appear to be aware of Mr. Kuryakin's bona fides, I suggest you two get to work. Please go to Section III for the intelligence you'll need for this mission. They should have it ready for you by now."

Both men stood and said in unison, "Yes, sir." Waverly didn't miss their flawless timing. Not every team had that – only the outstanding ones.

Solo waited until Kuryakin caught up him so they could leave Waverly's office side by side. They left at a leisurely pace, not noticing or caring that their boss was beginning to fume about the extended leave-taking.

"Your English is very good for a Russian, Mr. Kuryakin. I'm thinking by the accent you learned the language at the source. And you can call me Napoleon."

Kuryakin gave him a one-sided smile. "Great Britain – Cambridge specifically – is where I perfected my grasp of the English language. I must say your command of English is very good for an American."

Solo laughed. " _Touch_ _é_ _, Monsieur_ Kuryakin."

In a perfect Parisian accent, he replied in French, "It is not often that someone appreciates my sense of humor. You may call me Illya."

"Illya." He pronounced it in two syllables, using the short vowel sound for the I. "That's Russian for Elijah, isn't it?"

"That is correct. However, my name has two L's instead of one, thereby giving it three syllables. It is pronounced _ee_ _l_ _-le-uh_."

"Is that so?"

"It is, Napoléon." Kuryakin used the French pronunciation.

Solo smiled amiably. "Well, on this mission, let's hope you're more miracle worker than prophet."

"On this mission, let us hope you are more emperor than failed invader of invincible Russia." Subtle easing was evident in Kuryakin's tone.

Waverly harrumphed to get their attention. Both turned partially back toward him. "Gentlemen, I suggest you carry on this, um, language lesson on your own time."

Again in unison they said, "Yes, sir," and hurried out of the room.

The door swished closed behind them. Waverly chuckled. _Finally_ , he thought. _Someone who can keep up with Solo, at least verbally_. Perhaps this pairing could become an official partnership. That is, if he could persuade Harry Beldon to loosen his proverbial stranglehold on the Soviet.

Now he snickered. "What would I be unleashing on the world," he whispered so quietly that the recording microphones didn't pick up the statement.

the end

© 2018

Prompts for 03.19.2018 Section VII Short Affair Challenge: _stage_ and _orange_

Continues in _First … Mission_

 _FYI_ : Elijah was a prophet and a miracle worker. Napoleon Bonaparte's account of the Battle of Borodino was, "The most terrible of all my battles was the one before Moscow. The French showed themselves to be worthy of victory, but the Russians showed themselves worthy of being invincible."


	11. First Snow

**First … Snow**

Time frame: Pre-series

Series: FIRSTS

~mfu~

 _New York, 1960_

Illya Kuryakin made his way quickly to New York's Central Park, anxious to experience the first snow in his new home in a setting as pastoral as the city offered.

Despite the few people around – most, he surmised, were staying indoors because of the prediction of a fierce storm – he chose a bench in a secluded part of the park. The first snow of winter had always been magical to him. His family had understood, and joined him in the ritual he had started when he was two years old.

He sat, wrapped in thick wool against the chill north wind, and waited for the first few flakes. Though it was unsafe – he was being surveilled by the FBI, the CIA, the KGB, and probably THRUSH – he let his attention wander to the sky. He shivered not from the cold but the anticipation. As he waited, he recalled other first snows.

 _Kiev, 1940_

His entire body is bundled in layers of wool rags. He sits on the stoop of the small building where his and six other families live. He looks to the sky and prays silently like his babushka taught him for the snow to hurry its fall to earth. As soon as he spies the first flake, he screams with delight and claps his hands, the sound muffled by the mittens he wears.

"Mama! Papa! Petro! Come out! It is finally here!" He shouts loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. He jumps down to the street and starts his version of the _Hopak_ dance, adding moves he has learned in gymnastics.

The snow starts slowly but picks up rapidly. He dances alone at first, then Papa and Petro join him, while Mama stays on the stoop with the two little ones. All of them are laughing, stopping only to taste the snow.

 _Kiev, 1941_

For the first time, he sees the grayness that foretells snow as gloom. He hides in the ruins across from what used to be his home so no one, even his own people, can catch him and take him to the warehouses full of hungry, sick, orphaned children. Death traps, he decided months ago. Better to live on the streets and make it hard for anyone to kill him.

The snow comes, still astounding to him despite what has happened since June. Like some conjurer, the flakes cover the black and gray ashes, the partially burned boards, the ivory chunks of bone. Finally, Mama and Petro are buried under something natural, not hateful.

He finds a roofless room in the building where he hides and begins. He sticks to the traditional choreography; months ago, he had declared his version dead, along with his beloved family. Slowly, the misery in his soul fades as he becomes only movement and the music in his head.

When he finishes, he sighs. Hunting and killing the rest of the Nazis responsible for murdering his family will have to wait – it is too easy to track him in the snow.

 _Gypsy camp in a Ukrainian forest, 1944_

"It's starting!" he proclaims to the whole of the camp of his Romany relatives. Several of his cousins join him in his dance in the center of the circle of wagons. There is no music because there could be Germans near but there is soft clapping to help the dancers stay together. They stir up brown dust from the dead leaves underfoot. The snow picks up and settles the earthen clouds back to the ground.

 _Paris, 1953_

The sky promises snow, so he heads for _Jardin des Tuileries_ , the city's largest public garden. He chooses the _L'_ _é_ _t_ _é_ because of its relative isolation. Plus his welcome of snow could also serve as an _adieu_ to the season the statue is named for.

Moments after he arrives, the first powder floats to earth. He grins, feeling freer for the first time in years, now that he is at the Sorbonne and out of the Soviet Union, even though the Navy and the KGB are still his masters. He starts the dance, the internalized rhythm effortlessly guiding his body.

Passers-by notice him and stop to watch. Soon, others join them. It is a while before he is aware of the audience. He almost stops, his normally reserved self coming to the forefront, but they seem as happy as he, so he continues.

When he finishes, he bows quickly and races away to fervent applause and shouts for more.

oOo

The snow finally arrived. Illya caught a few flakes on his tongue and smiled. Standing, he shed his overcoat. He started slowly to warm up muscles strained and bruised on a recent assignment with his new partner. He turned the music on in his mind's ear and began the _Hopak_ in earnest. He delighted in the snow, watching it slowly cover the grass and his clothes. He quickly found himself lost in the moment.

When he finished, he held his arms out and turned his head to the sky to let the magic fill him.

Abruptly he dropped to a crouch, pivoted, and drew his weapon in one fluid motion in response to sounds behind him.

It was his partner, Napoleon Solo. He was clapping and grinning like a thrilled child. "That was amazing!" he exclaimed with authentic enthusiasm. "Does what you did have a name?"

Blushing from his embarrassment and the activity he had just completed, he re-holstered his weapon before Solo could admonish him. "It is the _Hopak_ , a Ukrainian folk dance. Every child learns this at an early age."

"I'd love to learn it. Will you teach me sometime?"

Suspicious, given Napoleon's penchant for teasing, Illya glared at him.

"Seriously, Illya. I love to dance and that is one I'd like to add to my repertoire."

"As you wish." He paused while he brushed the snow from his clothes and pulled on his overcoat. "Why are you here?"

"We've got a mission. THRUSH may be looking into switching the newly-elected president with a double. Since it's such a nice day, I walked rather than use the communicator. I love the first snow."

The smile that started on Illya's lips spread to his entire face. Perhaps next year, if things worked out with this partnership, he'd teach Napoleon his version.

the end

© 2018

Thanks to CoriKay for her excellent suggestions.

Prompts for 03.26.2018 Section VII Short Affair Challenge: _gloom_ and _brown_


	12. First Mission Prep, Part 1

**First … Mission Prep, Part 1**

Time frame: Pre-series

Part of the FIRSTS series; continuation of _First … Meeting_

~mfu~

Once they left Waverly's office, Solo and Kuryakin didn't have the chance to continue their conversation because the halls were busy. Solo greeted everyone with a nod.

Kuryakin, mortified at his less-than-professional interaction with Alexander Waverly and the engaging Solo, walked a half-pace behind the latter and close to the wall in an effort to be inconspicuous. His tactic wasn't entirely successful as almost everyone eyed him with either curiosity or suspicion.

As they neared the elevator that would take them to Section III, Napoleon stopped abruptly. Illya promptly bumped into him.

Kuryakin blushed lightly. "Please forgive me. I should have been paying closer attention." Despite his embarrassment, he was pleased that Solo, though of average size, was powerfully built. This would bode well for them both should things go badly.

Napoleon, surprised that Kuryakin was unexpectedly solid as reinforced concrete, smiled an apology. "My fault. I shouldn't have stopped so suddenly."

Illya's lips twitched on deciding to use humor to diffuse their discomfort in the invasion of personal space. "You are forgiven – this time," he said with the tiniest hint of playfulness.

Solo chuckled. "How magnanimous of you, Illya."

"'We should be too big take offense and too noble to give it.'"

Napoleon stared in amazement at Illya. He may have finally found someone who could match wits with him. "Are many Russians able to quote Abraham Lincoln?"

"It is likely most of my countrymen do not even know who President Lincoln was."

"Well, just for that, I'll treat you to lunch. That's why I stopped. I'm too hungry to work on planning the mission. How about you?"

Illya was ravenous, though he wouldn't admit it. "I could eat."

"Follow me, my new friend."

Illya grinned to himself; he had never expected an American to call him _friend_. Perhaps he could consider Napoleon a friend one day; he hadn't felt this comfortable or let his guard down around anyone for a very long time. Solo looked at him not with misgiving and hatred but appraisal and welcoming.

oOo

The commissary was quiet after the lunch rush so there was no waiting in line, for which Kuryakin was grateful. The choices were plentiful, more so than what he was accustomed to in those European stations that provided food.

"Napoleon, I am curious. Food is without charge at other bases. Why must one pay here?"

There was a moment's hesitation before Solo replied, "When I said I'd treat you, it was a different way of inviting you to join me."

"I understand. I have much to learn about American idiomatic phrases."

"I suppose I could say the same about Russian phrases."

"Indeed. An appropriate one would be, _Don't feed me bread, because any chance I get, I will eat whatever I want_."

"And is there meaning beyond the obvious?"

"Yes. _Don't feed me bread_ signifies that what follows is what one has a strong and passionate desire to do or for something."

"In that case, I suggest you should fill your tray with whatever you want to eat." Solo signaled Illya to go first.

Watching the wide-eyed Russian pile his tray high with numerous culinary delights made Napoleon think of a kid in a candy shop. "You know you can come back for more," he said as a half-question.

"That is my plan," Illya replied as he balanced a carrot cake muffin on the huge pile on his tray.

"Good thing the food is free; otherwise, you'd have to take out a loan against your next three paychecks." Napoleon, chortling, went for soup, salad, and a half-sandwich.

"May we sit anywhere?"

"Yep. No reservations needed here. You choose."

Out of survival habit, Illya selected a table that allowed him to see all entrances into the seating area. He had learned at an early age that no place was truly safe.

Napoleon nodded his approval when Illya looked back at him. The American was becoming increasingly assured that his fellow agent had well-honed spy skills.

Illya settled into his chair then quickly tucked a napkin in the collar of his shirt. His next tuck was into the small mountain of food.

Solo ignored his own repast, too enthralled in watching Illya devour and still appearing to savor every morsel. He reached for a stray french fry, but stopped when Illya looked up, giving him a threatening glare.

"Please eat your own food. Also, I prefer not to engage in conversation while I eat."

Napoleon sat back, an agreeable smile on his face. He turned to his own food and enjoyed it and the entertainment that was Kuryakin in dedicated consuming mode.

oOo

In his guest quarters after the meal, Illya stated, "While I am fresh, I will modify some standard charges. I have found they can be improved but the change in a standard is sometimes slow. It is not necessary for you to accompany me."

"No, no, this I want to see. Do you mind?"

Kuryakin gave Napoleon a small, reserved smile. "I would be honored." With that, he withdrew a lighted head magnifier and a tri-fold pouch of worn brown leather from his carry-on. "Shall we?"

For some reason, Napoleon wasn't surprised that Kuryakin carried his own tools with him.

oOo

Illya, his face lit up like a bright sun, explained what he was doing while doing it and never once faltered or hesitated. Napoleon thought the man's over-sized – considering his compact frame – hands were like a well-rehearsed ballet troupe. And from what he knew about explosives, he knew Illya's modifications were big improvements.

Kuryakin finished the sixth charge and said, "I believe that will be enough. If needed, I will do more."

"Ah, can – _may_ I ask a few questions?"

"Of course."

"Where and when did you learn to do this?" Immediately, Napoleon knew he had touched an open nerve at Illya's withdrawal to frigid blankness.

The Russian, as rigid as a statue, replied, "In the Soviet Union. I have been doing this for … a while. There is nothing more you need to know on this matter."

Napoleon nodded amicably, making note to avoid asking this intriguing person about his past. And eating his food.

the end

© 2018

Continues in _First … Mission Prep, Part 2_

Thanks to CoriKay for her beta – excellent as always.

Prompts for 03.26.2018 Section VII Short Affair Challenge: _devour_ and _brown_


	13. First Mission Prep, Part 2

**First … Mission Prep, Part 2**

Time frame: Pre-series

Part of the FIRSTS series; continuation of _First …_ _Mission Prep, Part 1_

~mfu~

The tension proved temporary and was gone completely by the time the agents reached Section III where the mission data were waiting for them. Napoleon introduced him to the secretary.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Montgomery," said Illya with a slight bow. Napoleon noticed that she returned the gesture with a seductive smile. He sighed to himself; he'd been trying to wrangle a date with her for months.

At the sound of the door behind them swishing open, both men turned to see the second-in-command of Section III enter.

"Illya Kuryakin," Napoleon began, "this is -"

" _Mr_. Spencer," interrupted Illya icily. The emphasis on the honorific was definitely not congenial.

"Kuryakin," replied Spencer in an equally frigid tone.

Solo immediately went into diplomatic mode to calm the animosity between the two men. "Ah, good. You know each other. So why don't we get started? Spence, who is assigned to go over the intel with us?"

Without taking his narrowed eyes from Kuryakin, Spencer said, "Me."

"Excellent. Which map room are we using?"

"Two."

Napoleon, closest to the map room entrances, lead the way. Spencer sped up and slid in between Solo and Kuryakin in an obvious ploy to one-up the Soviet. The maneuver didn't escape Solo's attention, or the fact that Illya took it in stride.

Spencer filled them in on the guards and their postings, the timing of their rounds, shift changes, and the topography and features of the area on maps pinned to one of the corkboards. Next, all three agents turned their attention to the satrapy blueprints, as bomb placement would affect their ingress and egress.

Illya put on green-tinted spectacles he had withdrawn from an inside pocket. "Spencer, these appear to be similar to building plans in Europe. However, I do not wish to assume anything. Would you please review these, in particular pointing out the gas lines?"

Napoleon nodded in approval. Kuryakin admitting what he didn't know gave him a greater degree of confidence in the Soviet.

"Gas lines are here and here," Spencer said as he traced the lines with a pencil. He quickly finished explaining the rest.

"Thank you." He moved closer until he was a few inches from the boards. Spencer scowled, but Napoleon watched with interest as the man apparently was memorizing each square inch.

Finally, Illya stood back to imprint the full picture of the blueprints. After a few minutes. "In my opinion, four modified standard charges will be required. We will take all six. Optimum placement is here, here, here, and here," he stated as he circled each position with a drafting pencil. "Would you concur, Napoleon?" Illya looked at him with a bland expression, not wanting to influence his decision.

Solo's eyebrows rose at both the unexpected request and the fact that Spencer's opinion wasn't solicited. He perused the plans more closely. When he could find no better placement, he said, "I would. Spence?" Inwardly, he winced at his _faux pas_ , afraid he'd insulted Illya and overstepped his authority in this mission; after all, Kuryakin was the lead. A vague straightening of the Russian's shoulders told him he had.

"He's the expert, Napoleon. Who am I to question his choices?" Spencer's facial expression of disdain translated fully to his tone.

Kuryakin remained unchanged, but Solo, infuriated with Spencer, gave him a black look. He was gratified when the Section III agent softened his manner somewhat.

"What are your suggestions for entry and exit, Napoleon?" queried Illya. He wanted input from Solo, given what he knew of the agent's successes in the field. And he knew asking was important to team building – something he rarely experienced since few UNCLE agents in Europe deigned to work with him and KGB agents seldom worked with partners.

Solo smiled to indicate his pleasure at being asked. "Of the three possibilities, I'm thinking ingress at the northeast and egress at the south. That should give us plenty of time to get far enough away before the detonations."

Illya studied the maps carefully. He liked it, but wasn't completely satisfied. "If I may ask, why not the southwest door?"

Solo bristled for a brief moment, feeling his ego and expertise challenged by this youngster, but let it go. "South is closer to the trees and there are some rises in the ground that could provide cover if needed."

Kuryakin nodded. "Agreed." Turning to Spencer, he declared, "We are done here. Thank you. Napoleon, may we discuss the remaining details in your office?" At Solo's nod, he brushed past Spencer as if he were a post and left the room.

Solo stared at Spencer until the agent snorted. "You got a problem, Napoleon?"

"Yes, I do. Don't _ever_ let me hear of you treating anyone like you did Agent Kuryakin," he said, threat and fury grossly evident in his tone. He left the room in the same manner Illya had.

oOo

Illya was waiting for him in the corridor. "I thought it best I leave." He paused. "You seem … upset."

Napoleon took a deep breath. "More like perturbed. I have a couple questions but they'll wait until we get to my office."

"Certainly."

Soon they were ensconced in Napoleon's office. Before Solo could ask, Illya said, "I know Richard Spencer from Survival School. We were … colleagues. When he did not complete successfully the demolitions portion, he had to take the course, taught by me, twice more. The final time he passed marginally. That is why he is Section III."

Solo knew of Spencer's multiple applications for transfer. "So, he blames you for not getting in Section II."

"That is a fair assumption."

"Anything else I should know?"

Kuryakin wanted to tell him about the "accidental" injury acquired during a lull in knife-fighting practice, how Cutter believed Spencer's claim that he had mistakenly used a real knife and hadn't realized the training was paused, but telling Solo was unnecessary. "No."

Napoleon looked at Illya's indifferent expression for a long moment, _knowing_ there was something else. "All right. Let's get started, shall we?"

They reviewed hand signals, learned how the other worked, came up with contingencies. Finally, Illya said, "I believe the light is now green."

Napoleon grinned at Illya's attempt at another "foreign" phrase. "I think you mean we have a 'green light'."

Illya rolled his eyes – something he never did where it could be seen – and said, "I believe that is what I said."

"Must've gotten twisted in translation."

the end

© 2018

Continues in _First … Mission_ _Execution_

Thanks once again to CoriKay for her exceptional beta.

Prompts for 04.02.2018 Section VII Short Affair Challenge: _fury_ and _green_


	14. First Mission Execution

**First … Mission Execution**

Time frame: Pre-series

Part of the FIRSTS series; continuation of _First …_ _Mission Prep, Part_ _2_

~mfu~

Without a word between them, the two agents automatically began the protocol for a night-time covert operation. First, they ate a light meal. Napoleon's eyes widened in amazement when he realized a light meal for his temporary partner was just one mountain of food instead of two. Illya refrained from shaking his head when he saw the meager amount Napoleon had. He wondered how the man could sustain life, much less any level of activity.

They showered using unscented soap and shampoo, then donned the fatigues they'd wear for the mission – Napoleon in navy blue, Illya in dark gray. They filled two backpacks with the charges along with a few other items that might be needed.

Lastly, they settled in for a long nap with a wake-up call for 0200, which Solo opined was truly a rude time for anyone to be calling, even from Communications.

oOo

About 0300, Napoleon parked the dark sedan in a secluded area about a mile from the site in New Jersey. During the drive from the city, the agents hadn't spoken during the drive except to review the plan and contingencies several times. To their mutual surprise, the silences were comfortable.

Solo and Illya, now wearing a black watch cap, met at the trunk. They took turns applying boot black to each other's face and helping each shrug on a rucksack. Illya gave the _let's-go_ signal.

They moved side-by-side with virtually soundlessly. Illya was impressed by Napoleon's stealth and attention to the environment. Napoleon thought, _Cat, or maybe tiger_ , having identified a strong ruthless quality about Illya. _I pity_ _any_ _THRUSH mice we might run into_.

The site was quieter than expected. It was Memorial Day weekend and, incredibly, THRUSH apparently was observing the holiday, the evidence being only a skeleton crew on guard.

Kuryakin signaled for Napoleon to take the lead. They crouched and slowly, noiselessly, approached the northeast entry point. Napoleon drew his Walther after placing a small charge on the lock. It flared and sizzled and a second later they were in. They paused until certain no one was aware of their existence.

It appeared that THRUSH hadn't remodeled so they would be able to breeze through "planting our seeds of destruction," as Illya had called the bombs during modifications – sounding not entirely tongue-in-cheek diabolical in Solo's opinion.

At the first location, Illya used a charge from Napoleon's backpack. Napoleon watched carefully, while keeping an watchful eye out for enemy personnel, as Illya set the bomb. He realized he was equal to the task but Illya had him beat in time, and seconds could make the difference between success and failure.

After the second charge was set, they came across a large safe in the hallway. Illya knew it would probably survive the blasts.

"Formula?" mouthed Kuryakin.

Napoleon shrugged an I-don't-know.

Illya decided to chance it even with time running down. Unexpectedly, it had been unlocked. He grinned triumphantly when he recognized several formulae and text. He signaled for Solo to shine a flashlight into the safe.

"Hurry," Solo whispered in his ear. Illya ignored him and continued to study the pages. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes to ensure everything had been committed to memory. He shoved Napoleon away, activated and tossed a tiny button explosive from his fatigues into the safe, and closed the door quickly. A second later, he smirked happily when the safe emitted a muffled boom and shook.

They raced to set the remaining charges. Just after the final one, they faced each other when they heard something from opposite ends of the corridor. Without a word, Illya leaned to his right to give Napoleon some space to act and drew his pistol. Nearly simultaneously, they fired.

Neither guard could fire before Napoleon's bullet caught one squarely in the throat and Kuryakin's gave his victim a perfectly placed third eye.

Illya re-holstered his gun. He tapped his watch four times to indicate the first charge would blow in four minutes. Napoleon nodded his understanding and waved his weapon toward the egress point, which was the exit closest to the last bomb.

Just before Kuryakin reached for the door lever, Napoleon spotted a thin, silvery filament attached to it. He touched Illya's arm and said _sotto voce_ , "Wait." He pointed to the wire.

Illya's eyes opened wide. In his controlled worry, he sent the American silent gratitude for saving their lives. He nodded before turning Napoleon's back to him and pushing him a couple feet away.

Over his shoulder, Napoleon murmured placidly, " _Rapidement,_ _m_ _on ami._ _Le temps_ _passe_."

"Atrocious accent," he breathed. The absurdity of this exchange helped to focus him, to not let time push him into a mistake. He strained his eyes to study the wire.

Good luck was with them. Disabling the explosive took only a few seconds – wise, considering this was an exit. Still, he hesitated a heartbeat before depressing the lever.

Illya exhaled audibly with relief when no explosion ensued. Drawing his weapon, he stepped out and checked for any sign of the enemy. All appeared quiet, so he gestured for Napoleon to join him. They ran over the uneven terrain to the cover of the trees.

Kuryakin caught some movement to the left of their destination. The meager light from the facility reflected off a THRUSH rifle scope that was rapidly being leveled at them. Illya shouldered Napoleon out of the way, causing him to stumble and fall. Illya, too, fell next to Solo, but as he did, he fired twice. Immediately, he was rewarded with a yelp and a thud from the woods.

"What the -" Napoleon started but stopped when the first of the explosions erupted, turning the night into dawn, rumbling the earth beneath them. By the time the fourth charge blew, night was day.

He looked to Illya, whose full attention was on the conflagration. The Russian's face telegraphed unbridled exuberance. Napoleon shivered and wondered, _Pyromaniac?_

Illya, feeling Napoleon's eyes on him, dragged his gaze from the fire. "That was ..."

" _Big_?"

"Satisfying."

Napoleon chuckled and assured himself that Illya had been thoroughly vetted by U.N.C.L.E.

"No bread for you."

the end

© 2018

Continues in _First … Mission Debriefing_

 _Rapidement,_ _m_ _on ami._ _Le temps_ _passe_ Quickly, my friend. Time flies _._

The last line is a reference to IK's explanation of _Don't Feed Me Bread_ saying in _First … Mission Planning, Part 1_

Thanks to CoriKay for the beta; I really should add her as a co-author.

Prompts for 04.09.2018 Section VII Short Affair Challenge: _rude_ and _silver_


	15. First Mission Debriefing

**First … Mission Debriefing**

Time frame: Pre-series

Part of the FIRSTS series; continuation of _First …_ _Mission_ _Execution_

~mfu~

The sound of approaching sirens drew their attention away from the raging fire. "There's my call back to action," Napoleon said as he stood. As prearranged, Solo would deal with the UNCLE cleanup team and the local fire and police departments to preclude any possible issues with a Russian national.

"I will check on the casualty." Illya quickly made himself scarce, melting into the cover provided by the trees.

Napoleon shook his head in awe at the way Illya seemed to blend in to such an extent that it was difficult to even detect his movement. He jogged over to the rapidly set-up command center to start his post-mission work.

oOo

It was well past dawn before the two agents got back to their car. After opening the trunk, Napoleon pulled out two towels and tossed one to Illya, who immediately began removing the boot black.

Though he had been with Illya for less than 24 hours, it seemed to Napoleon that the Soviet was more introspective than usual.

"Something bothering you, my friend?" asked Napoleon as he scrubbed his forehead.

"It is nothing."

"I beg to differ."

Illya nailed him with a glacial stare. "You are being presumptuous." How could this brazen American ask that question of someone he hardly knew? How could he explain that even though he could kill without qualms when justified, he could still feel crushing remorse in the aftermath?

"Didn't mean to be. Just thought you might feel better if you talked about it."

Illya hid his silent sigh with his towel when he realized that Napoleon wasn't just curious or judgmental but truly caring. "I apologize. I am not used to, what is the expression … 'baring my soul' to anyone."

"I understand. I feel that way myself a lot." Without warning, he wiped away a dark smudge on Illya's cheek that he had missed. "Ah, there. Presentable once again."

Illya surprised himself when he didn't recoil from the touch or stab the hand that invaded his space. His vow to keep things strictly professional and impersonal with all UNCLE personnel appeared to be breaking with Napoleon Solo.

"By the way, thanks for saving my life back there."

Illya smiled gently. "And I thank you for saving ours before that."

Napoleon chuckled. "Guess that makes us even."

oOo

Kuryakin, as lead on the mission, provided their superior with a succinct verbal report, including the fact that Solo had spotted a trip wire to an explosive, saving them both.

"Well, gentlemen, congratulations on successfully completing your assignment. Mr., um, Kuryakin, committing to memory the documentation then ensuring its destruction was an unexpected but welcome outcome."

"Yes, sir," Illya said.

Napoleon gave the Soviet an incredulous look. "You _memorized_ all those pages? In just those few _minutes_?"

Almost blushing, Kuryakin responded, "I have a knack for … remembering."

"Mr. uh, Solo, Mr. Kuryakin has an eidetic memory." Waverly cleared his throat, which brought Solo's gobsmacked gaze back to him. "I think Mr. Kuryakin would agree with me that it is both a blessing and a curse."

"Yes, sir."

Napoleon simply tapped his lips with a finger.

"Thank you for your written report as well, Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo, I expect yours by the end of the day."

Solo tossed Illya a pseudo-scornful look. "Yes, sir."

"That will be all."

Both men rose simultaneously. Illya practically bolted; he still had to pack before catching his flight.

Solo stopped just short of leaving Waverly's office. "Sir, if I may have a few minutes?"

"Of course, Mr., uh, Solo. What's on your mind?"

Napoleon cleared his throat. "If I may say, sir, Mr. Kuryakin would be a great asset to Section II here. And I, um, wouldn't mind partnering with him." He hastily added, "From time to time."

Waverly waited a heartbeat before replying, "I will take that under advisement, Mr. Solo." He picked up a folder on the desk.

Napoleon took that as his dismissal. He nodded while he fiddled with a non-lethal coat button, then left.

oOo

Waverly finished reading Kuryakin's report of the mission and set it aside for Mrs. Higgins, his long-time assistant, to file. He was pleased he hadn't jinxed the pairing by putting the Soviet in charge, but he had needed to know that Solo, a natural and ambitious leader, could follow for a change now that he was a senior agent.

He also needed to know if Kuryakin could lead a mission and show initiative when something presented itself that was not in the assignment, given that rote KGB training was notoriously hard to overcome.

He nodded at the success of _his_ mission and reached for the humidor for a self-congratulatory smoke.

Now to maneuver Harry Beldon into thinking the transfer would benefit him and, secondarily, the organization. He began contemplating his strategy in this game, knowing that Beldon was a bright and fierce competitor.

oOo

Illya was buckling his carry-on when Napoleon showed at the open door. "Is there anything I can do for you, Napoleon?"

"Yeah. Let me drive you to the airport."

"That is not necessary. I have arranged for an U.N.C.L.E. cab to take me. But thank you for the offer."

"Could you cancel it? There is something I'd like to discuss with you."

"And that would be … ?"

"The possibility of you transferring to New York."

Illya found himself momentarily tongue-tied; never had anyone within U.N.C.L.E. made him feel truly welcome, much less wanted, except for this man. "That is an interesting idea to which I am not averse. I will cancel the cab."

"Good."

"If you are planning on listing the reasons why I should request transfer, there is a glaringly obvious one."

"And that would be?" Solo echoed.

"Someone needs to give you language lessons in proper English." Illya's blue eyes glittered with humor.

Solo's mouth gaped open for two seconds then converted to a broad smile. "Let's go before I change I mind."

the end of this part of FIRSTS

© 2018

Eventually, I will combine all the short affairs of this mission and add more content.

Prompts for 04.16.2018 Section VII Short Affair Challenge: _jinx_ and _blue_

Thanks to CoriKay, my long-time beta, for her edits/suggestions.


	16. The A-Tisket A-Tasket Affair

**The A-Tisket, A-Tasket Affair**

Tag to _The See-Paris-and-Die Affair_

~mfu~

Discovering how the diamond heist was pulled off in Amsterdam turned out to be rather straightforward. Upon reporting his findings to Alexander Waverly, Illya Kuryakin had a new assignment: proceed to Rotterdam to retrieve the reversed-engineered THRUSH hypnosis-inducing formula and bring it to UNCLE-New York for antidote development.

Illya understood that at times, Section II agents were called upon for courier duty, for any number of reasons. He didn't care for it, but not because it was beneath him as a top agent. It was because these jobs frequently turned out to be quite dangerous and just as often, there was no backup or partner.

He sighed at intuition rearing its non-scientific head yet again and telling him this wasn't going to be a walk in the park. He listened because it had saved his and Napoleon's lives multiple times.

So, he took his throbbing head and what little was left of his dignity – given that in Paris he'd been stripped of his trousers, romanced by Madame Grushenka, and humiliated for not finding the diamonds sooner – to the port city. The only thing good about this mission, the opportunity to see his friend, was not to be; Dr. Esposito would be passing the microfilmed formula to him via a drop.

oOo

As soon as he was reasonably sure he wasn't being followed, Illya entered the designated delicatessen near the statue of Erasmus. He was hungry and fortunately the deli had excellent sandwiches and pastries.

Illya was relieved that there was only one customer, who was earnestly reading a book. "Hello, Daniël," he said in Dutch to the middle-aged man behind the counter. "I will have the usual."

"Of course. I'll put it on your uncle's account." Daniël twitched his head toward the back room – the signal that the microfilm had been delivered.

Illya nodded and quietly slipped into the room, certain it was unnoticed by the reader.

The microfilm was exactly where it should have been. He wasted no time removing his belt and sliding the film into the hidden pouch. He cracked open the door just wide enough to peer out. Nothing had changed, so he exited as quietly as he'd entered.

The hungry agent grinned widely at the double espresso, roast beef sandwich, and two pastries waiting for him on the counter. He laid down a 2-1/2 guilder coin as a tip. He thanked Daniël and carried the tray to a table near the rear exit and sat facing the front. His eyes alight with anticipation, he lifted the sandwich to his open mouth but stopped when four men suddenly appeared near his table. Illya castigated himself for not paying attention to his surroundings.

Three of the men were huge and one small one was Esposito, whose arm was twisted behind his back by a chunky hand.

"I am so sorry, Illya," Javier said. "They used truth serum on me. And they burned everything in my lab."

"No, Javier, I'm sorry this happened to you."

"Shut up, Kuryakin," growled the ursine THRUSH. "Hand over the formula."

"I will do so peacefully if you let Dr. Esposito go."

"I'll take it under consideration."

Of course they wouldn't. Javier, as the source of the analysis, most assuredly was under a death warrant and was being used to elicit Illya's cooperation. Now with the lab gone, the microfilm became even more important.

The scientist was not going to die if he could help it. Fortunately, both Daniël and the other customer had disappeared. Two less innocents to worry about. He formulated a plan, knowing it was unlikely to succeed.

Illya threw his sandwich – _What a waste_ , he moaned – at the THRUSH on the far right while simultaneously flinging the coffee across the faces of the other two. He pushed away from the table and stood while drawing his weapon and activating a personal tracker.

But the man plastered with bread and beef recovered too quickly and shot Kuryakin with a sleep dart. He fell back and over the chair, unconscious before his head hit the floor.

The THRUSHman holding the shocked Esposito unhesitatingly executed the scientist. "We can't be seen carrying Kuryakin out of here. Find something to dump him in."

They found a laundry basket on wheels, large enough to hold the UNCLE agent, on one side of the counter. A THRUSHman easily balled Illya up and sandwiched him between some dirty linen. They left, so focused on getting out with their prize, that they neglected to see Daniël watching through a crack in the back room door.

oOo

"Solo here."

"Ah, Mr. Solo. You are to leave for Rotterdam immediately. The Paris office has arranged transportation. Mr., um, Kuryakin has been captured while in possession of a most important microfilm. You are to find and retrieve both quickly. Start at the delicatessen used for drops where he was last seen." Waverly cut the connection.

"Yes, _sir_ ," Napoleon said under his breath in response to Waverly's brusqueness. Thinking about that kept the worry about his partner somewhat in check.

oOo

Hours later, Napoleon was in Rotterdam. According to Daniël's recounting, Illya had had sufficient time to actuate a tracker and was tranquilized. He was quick to point out that Illya had tried but couldn't prevent Esposito's death.

Napoleon sighed. He'd have to pick the right time to inform Illya about Javier. But he had to find his partner first. With any luck, the signal – and Illya – would still be in range of the detector.

Luck was with him. A part-time agent, an elderly woman who worked in the port master's office and monitored for anything suspicious, drove efficiently at Solo's directions.

"Ah, Irena, my dear, I believe we've reached our destination." It was a small building, probably only two or three rooms, not far from the port master's.

"This place has been quiet," she said in accented English. "Tomorrow, I look into it."

"Much appreciated, Irena." He patted her arm. "In ten minutes, call the police, all right?" He smiled at her nod.

Napoleon, Special in hand, sidled up to the building. He smiled again when he heard two voices carrying on a conversation through an open window, and neither voice was Illya's.

He glimpsed quickly over the sill. There were three men, all goliaths, sitting around a table, drinking Grolsch lager. Oddly enough, there was a large basket present. _Hiding in there, partner?_

He ducked below the sill to make sure his weapon was set for sleep darts. He took a breath, stood tall enough to get a good bead on each one. He fired three shots in rapid succession and three men were asleep in as many seconds.

The door posed no problem. "Tsk-tsk, boys. Open window, unlocked door. Such a lack of professionalism," he whispered. He checked each THRUSH to make sure they were out before he headed for the container.

There his partner was, out like a light and curled up like a threatened armadillo. Glancing at the wall clock, he calculated the drug would be wearing off soon. He grinned when he thought of what to say to a wakening partner.

Gently, he lifted Illya's chin and lightly tapped his face a few times. "Wake up, little buttercup." He was soon rewarded with a long moan.

Illya opened unfocused, bleary eyes. "Wha'? Na-na-poleon?"

"'A-tisket, a-tasket.'"

"Wha'?" Illya repeated.

"You're a blue-eyed, yellow-haired basket _case_."

Illya sighed, too groggy and headachy to understand or care what Napoleon was saying. All he knew at the moment was that he still had on his trousers – and the microfilm – and therefore a shred of dignity.

Then he realized what had likely happened to Javier, and threw up all over his clothes.

 _Sometimes I hate my job_.

the end

copyright 2018

Thanks to CoriKay for the beta, especially her excellent suggestions.

Section VII Short Affair Challenge for 07.09.2018; prompts = basket and blue


	17. Numbers, Part 1 - 2

**Numbers – Part 1: 2**

 _Early 1943, Kiev, Ukraine, USSR_

Though in his mid-50s and having lived through hard times in the Great War, the Great Slump, and now another world war, Alexander Waverly possessed the vigor of a man half his age. He also had expertise in guerrilla warfare. This ability garnered him a summons from a small group of independent resistance fighters that disagreed with the Ukrainian Insurgent Army's collaboration with the German forces. Signs and countersigns, appropriately enough, would be paraphrases of Pushkin's _Ode to Liberty_.

Careful to assume the ratty clothing and droop of a much older man, he made his way undetected to the rendezvous point. He explored the ruined building but found no one. Finding a sturdy stool, he sat down to wait.

Some time later, he yawned. When he reopened his eyes, before him stood an urchin, hair, clothes, and skin the color of dirt, skinny to the point of frail, but with the brightest, most piercing blue eyes he had ever seen. He could feel the boy taking his measure, feel the distrust, the wariness, the readiness to fight or flee. The boy was surely no more than six. Alex bemoaned the loss of yet another childhood.

"Ah, you startled me, young man," he said in French, the language agreed upon in the invitation.

"We will attack the breach," the boy said in flawless French.

"That we will from on high," Waverly counter-signed, "with a force of honesty."

"No, of righteousness."

"And freedom vernal."

The ragamuffin paused for a long moment. He coughed, a phlegmy sound, before ordering, "Follow me."

Alex did, marveling at the boy's stealth and awareness of the environment. Ten minutes later, the boy showed him to a basement of another ruined building and left him in the company of four men.

"You survived the scrutiny of my son, so welcome, Alexander Waverly," said the large man with black hair and familiar eyes. "Thank you for making such a dangerous trip to help us improve our skills. I am called Nico."

Alex wondered if Nico was a diminutive for Nikolai. "Well, my good man, I do what I can to stop the Nazis in their quest for world domination. But first, how old is your boy?"

"Nine, though he will tell you 10. He is small, like his mother, may she rest in peace." A resigned sadness filled his eyes and tone. "But he is a warrior, nonetheless. He works magic with bombs. He is better than most with the knife and the long gun. He is very bright, my boy." Now there was pride, not boastfulness but a simple statement of fact, in his voice. "I will introduce my men and we will eat and drink and learn. Illyusha!" Nico called out. "Bring the tray!"

The boy stayed with them as they consumed homemade vodka, drinking some himself, and black bread and moldy cheese. Alex could tell the silent child absorbed everything that was spoken and seemed to understand it.

oOo

Illyusha showed Alex to his sleeping mat in a corner of the basement. He bowed and turned to leave, but Alex caught hold of the thin arm. He hissed in pain and gave the Englishman an icy stare.

Alex removed his hand quickly. "I am sorry, young man. Are you hurt?"

Illyusha wavered as if debating with himself on whether to answer truthfully or at all. Finally, decision made, he shook his head a little too adamantly to be the truth.

"That is good, then. Injuries are no laughing matter, you know. Sit with me for a bit, won't you?"

Alex was heartened to see the hesitation in the boy, but wasn't surprised when he replied, "No. We must sleep now. We have much to do tomorrow." Off he went to join his father on the mat they shared. Alex watched Nico curl protectively around his son and listened to their murmurs, probably in Ukrainian. As he pulled the threadbare blanket he suspected had once been green over his chilled bones, he felt envy that he had never huddled and probably never would with his own son. He also felt gratitude that these dangerous circumstances were unlikely to happen for his family.

oOo

The next day, Alex helped the group plan an action to be carried out just before dawn the next morning. Periodically, he watched Illyusha construct several incendiary devices with the confidence of an expert and the caution of respect for something that destroys. Once that task was completed, he saw the youngster take a purloined German sniper rifle and shells and leave their hideout, presumably to practice.

oOo

From his hiding place with Anatoly, Alex watched in awe as the devices ignited in near-perfect timing. As soon as they heard the surviving Germans yelling in confusion, every guerrilla rose and began shooting them. Only Illyusha stayed hidden in his sniper's nest.

Alex recognized the sound of Illyusha's rifle. With each shot, a Nazi fell. _Extraordinary_ , he thought as he fired his own weapon.

As soon as the last German had fallen, the guerrillas pulled back. They had decimated the enemy and suffered no casualties of their own.

Nico stopped his comrades 100 yards or so from the burning huts. "Ah, here is Illyusha now," he said as the boy ran toward them, rifle still ready for use. "Hurry, my -"

Alex didn't hear the gunfire; he only felt Nico's brain and bone splatter his face. He didn't see the shooter crumble to the ground, nor see another German rise. He felt something solid tackle him and grunt, and immediately roll off him.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw Illyusha come to a knee and fire in the same second. That shooter was dead the following second. Illyusha crumpled to his side, holding the back of his thigh where blood oozed between his fingers.

It was then that Alex realized that Illyusha took a bullet meant for him and avenged his father's death.

"We must go!" shouted Anatoly. "Alex, carry Illyusha."

The boy offered no resistance; he simply stared with dry eyes at his father. Alex's heart ached in his chest as he stifled the urge to cry for Illyusha's loss.

oOo

The deep graze was cleaned, stitched, and bandaged, during which Illyusha uttered no sound except the occasional _umph_. He went to his sleeping pallet. He laid down, pulling the blanket to his nose, and began inhaling, almost hyperventilating. Alex cringed at the thought that Nico's scent was all his son had left of him.

"What will happen to him now?"

Anatoly inhaled deeply. "Nico had Roma blood. We know where his tribe is hiding. Illya Nickovetch will join them. We will miss our little warrior."

Alex noted that the diminutive wasn't used. Perhaps the boy was now considered too old for a child's name. "Yes, I suppose you will." Alex squatted next to the boy. Those eyes were as lifeless as Nico's. "It has been my good fortune to know you, Illya Nickovetch. After this war is over, ask for me at the British embassy in Moscow. Tell them my English name and my Russian name. That way I know it is you. Do you understand?"

For a long time, he stayed there, waiting for Illya to respond. When his knees rebelled he stood and left. He was a few feet from the door when he heard a soft, "Why?"

He turned to look at Illya. "I want to know you are safe." _That you survived._ _N_ _ot sure you'll ever be safe._

" _Da_ , Sasha."

the end

Continued in _Numbers – Part 2: 11_

This was inspired by LRH Balzer, a superb writer, who has her own theory why IK's badge number was 2. Highly recommend all 10 volumes of her _Man from UNCLE Collection_ and her _Reemergence_ series, which is a multiple-fandom crossover that includes a strong MFU presence. Search for _lonemonkeyezines_.

Thanks to CoriKay once again for her beta and suggestions.

07.16.2018 Short Affair Challenge; prompts = _fortune_ and _green_


	18. Numbers, Part 2 - 11

**Numbers – Part 2: 11**

 _Spring 1954, Bruges, Belgium_

Though shy of 70 by several years, Alexander Waverly had slowed down only a step or two in the last decade. He attributed his energy and sharp mind to his latest purpose in life: stop THRUSH and any other blackguards from disrupting hard-won yet fragile peace. Hence his reason for being in Bruges on a self-appointed mission to look into alleged THRUSH activity in the beautiful coastal city.

He thrust his gloved hands deeper into his wool coat; the winter chill hadn't loosened its grip on the city yet. Time, he decided, for a hot beverage. As always, he remained aware of his immediate surroundings.

It wasn't difficult finding a cafe. Before entering the building to place his order, he surveyed the people sitting at the outdoor tables. No one appeared threatening and or paid him notice, save two men.

They attempted to appraise him surreptitiously but Alex was a highly skilled spy. He perused them in turn, reasonably sure they knew he was reciprocating.

One man was white with black hair, dark, intelligent, nonthreatening eyes with a backdrop of wariness, strong, dimpled chin, trim, fit body clothed in an expensive cashmere coat. The other man was a Negro, wearing a chauffeur's cap and uniform. He too was fit but quite large, with intelligent, discerning eyes. He strongly suspected they were not whomever they would label themselves. Intrigued, Alex decided he would ask to sit with them once he had his cuppa.

oOo

He stifled a gasp when he saw the elderly man through the rifle's scope. It was his walk, the way he carried himself, that identified him. He doused the light of that recognition quickly so his spotter wouldn't notice.

oOo

He approached the table affecting a minor degree of hesitation, as if he were uncertain about bothering them. In French, Alex said, "Excuse my, um, presumptuousness, but I was wondering if I may join you. I am new here and find myself desiring some company."

"Of course, please do," the Caucasian man replied in oddly accented French. He and the other man rose partway out of their chairs as Alex placed his over-sized orange cup on the table before sitting. The two men returned to their seats.

oOo

He couldn't believe that Sasha was now sitting across from one of his targets. His hand trembled like a dry leaf caught in a stiff breeze.

"What is wrong?" asked the other man.

"Nothing," he replied. "When I am hungry, sometimes my hands shake."

The spotter huffed. "You should have taken out the targets long before this. Can you still kill them from here?"

"Yes, yes. This is good still."

The spotter looked through his binoculars. "Only you could, _koush_ [deadeye]." He started feeding the shooter estimated wind direction and speed.

oOo

"Do you speak English?" asked Alex. "I would prefer that for conversation as I find it difficult to think in French after a time. I am Alexander Waverly." He held his head over the cup to let the steam warm his face.

The white man smiled graciously. "We'd be happy to oblige you, Mr. Waverly. Pleased to meet you. I'm Einar Anderson and my personal assistant" - he nodded at his companion - "is Harold Johnson."

"Thank you, my good men. Pleased to make your acquaintance as well. What brings you to this lovely city?" Alex detected Anderson's relatively well-concealed vigilance but Johnson was obviously tense.

"Ah, I'm an importer/exporter and am traveling Europe to find markets."

 _Stereotypical CIA cover_ , Alex thought. "That sounds, hmm, profitable."

"Well, I certainly hope so. There are a lot of deals to be made while the Continent continues to recover from the war. There is a lot of opportunity for those willing to provide hard-to-find goods and make money while doing it."

In just a short time, Alex surmised that Anderson could probably convince Newcastlers to purchase loads of coal. "Indeed. I should think so."

Further conversation halted as a bullet pierced the table and lodged itself in a cobblestone inches from Anderson.

Within a second, both Anderson and Johnson had Alex out of his chair and on the cold street, both covering him with their bodies. The people in the area screamed and shrieked and ran for cover.

Alex gasped at the weight on his body. Anderson covered his torso while Johnson lay across his legs. At the same time, he greatly appreciated the protection, especially if he were the target.

He felt Anderson rise slightly. "Third building to the left of the cafe, fourth or fifth floor."

"Got it," replied Johnson in a soft Texas drawl.

"Careful. I'll be there as soon as he's secured."

Anderson stayed atop Alex for a full minute before he said to the man, "I don't think they'll try again. However, to be safe, let's get you indoors. Less of a target there. Are you ready?"

"Yes, young man. I will likely need some assistance getting to my feet."

"Of course, sir. On the count of three ..." Anderson counted down and had Alex on his feet and in the building in a few seconds.

"Stay here." In French, he asked the clerk if there was somewhere the gentleman could hide. She nodded and led him to the restroom.

oOo

Without a word, the two men in the sniper's nest had packed up and run down the stairs, leaving the building through the back door.

"You _missed_! You said you could to it!"

The sniper snapped, "Even the best miss at times. You know how many variables must be taken into account."

"You will be punished for this."

"I am aware." He sighed and tried not to think of the flogging he'd receive. But Sasha and the intended victims were still alive. That made the coming misery worthwhile.

oOo

Anderson and Johnson entered the cafe 15 minutes later. "No luck. I think you're safe now," opined Anderson.

Alex asked, "Why do you think they were aiming for me? Why not you?"

"Ah, that's a distinct possibility. You see, you're not who you appear to be and neither are we."

"That would be agents of the U.S. Central Intelligence, I would think."

Anderson did a fair imitation of the boy with his hand stuck in the cookie jar. "Were we that obvious?"

"To me you were. My name truly is Alexander Waverly. I am head of Policy and Operations for U.N.C.L.E.-Northwest here on business."

Anderson clapped Johnson on the back and grinned sheepishly. "Napoleon Solo, at your service."

"And I'm Jason Walters, Napoleon's _partner_."

Alex chuckled. He saw something special in both men, especially Solo. "Of course, gentlemen. Now, if I may, I'd like to chat with you about the possibility of working for my organization. Shall we?" He made his way to the table farthest from the door, Solo and Walters close behind.

End of Part 2

Continued in _Numbers – Part_ _3_ _: 11_ _& 2_

FYI: An agent named only Jason (played by Rosey Grier in his acting debut) guarded Waverly in _The Brain-Killer Affair_. Thought it would be fun to bring him into a story.

Thanks to CoriKay for her usual excellent beta.

07.23.2018 Short Affair Challenge; prompts = _steam_ and _orange_


	19. Numbers, Part 3 - 11 & 2

**Numbers – Part 3: 11 & 2**

 _July 1954, U.N.C.L.E. HQ, New York City_

The moment he had returned from Bruges, Alexander Waverly had Sections V and VI create full dossiers on Solo and Walters. Though both men had exemplary records, they also had flaws. Solo's principal peccadillo seemed to be women, though he had apparently been faithful to his wife during their short marriage. Walters possessed such a strong protective instinct that he tended to be overly enthusiastic in expressing it.

Both men had been recruited by the FBI and the CIA, Solo while he was still in the Army and Walters after his discharge. They became friends at Langley – unusual in this age of racism – and were partnered for the Europe assignment. They were successful in finding a number of businesses financing what was a suspected Fourth Reich whose goal was to destroy the U.S.

He didn't have to wait long before hearing from them both, requesting a formal interview.

oOo

Alex pressed the lever down on the intercom box. "Yes, Mrs. Higgins?"

"Mr. Solo is here, sir," replied the Korean war widow currently in training to be Waverly's assistant.

"Very good. Please send him in. And some coffee would be nice, as well as aspirin. I'm sure Mr. Solo would appreciate both. Oh, and my black tea blend, of course."

"Yes, sir."

The dapper young man, exhibiting a curious blend of nonchalance and confidence, strolled into the office. Only a small, passing grimace and a wobbly step or two revealed something was awry.

"Ah, Mr. Solo. Please sit. Can't very well have you falling down. Truth serum often leaves one with gait problems and a smashing headache."

Solo gave the older man a grateful smile as he sat in the chair facing Waverly. "Ah, that was an … interesting experience. I assume I passed since I'm still here."

"That you did, Mr. Solo." He cleared his throat and opened the folder in front of him. "Your credentials are impressive. You speak several Romance languages fluently. You left college, where you excelled in academics and track and field, to join the Army and served with honor and distinction in Korea. There is more, but I believe you are aware of your accomplishments."

Solo gave him an ingratiating smile. _A manipulator_ _and quite a good one_ , _I suspect,_ thought Alex.

"I'm sure my résumé can't begin to compare to yours, sir," said Napoleon. "I've heard talk of your exploits in both world wars. Now _that's_ impressive. I would really enjoy hearing more about them, if you don't mind."

Alex almost began reciting pieces of his past but stopped once he realized Solo had nearly disarmed him as the interviewer. _Well played, young man_ , he thought before continuing, "Perhaps another time, if you don't mind."

A knock at the door halted the conversation. Mrs. Higgins let herself in, balancing a loaded tray in one hand.

Immediately, Solo jumped up. "Please, allow me," he offered, giving her no choice as he took the tray from her.

"Thank you, Mr. Solo. Mr. Waverly -"

Alex cut her off with a gentle wave of his hand. "You may leave, Mrs. Higgins. I am sure Mr., uh, Solo and I can manage."

Napoleon set the tray on the table. Before he could pour anything, Alex said, "Mr. Solo, you are just the type of person I want in this organization. The job is yours if you want it."

"Thank you, Mr. Waverly. I accept."

Alex couldn't deny his pleasure in having Solo join U.N.C.L.E. His sixth sense told him the man would prove to be more than exceptional.

 _February 1956, The Kremlin, Moscow, Soviet Union_

The two competent candidates to fulfill his pipe dream of a Soviet in U.N.C.L.E. didn't thrill Alex. He frowned, hoping the third man would be incomparable. He needed to be, considering the unforgiving scrutiny he surely would endure.

Sighing, eyes tired from reading smudged print, he picked up the final dossier. He opened it and instantly recognized the indomitable eyes peering back at him. _Illyusha._ _You survived!_

He smiled to himself while he reviewed the information. Navy lieutenant, extensive training with the GRU and KGB - likely still an agent for them – and much more.

Alex, wanting to avoid surveillance of their meeting, quickly formulated a plan. He stood and shuffled to the door. He opened it slowly to come face to face with his "chaperon." He caught a glimpse of Illyusha in uniform sitting rigidly on a bench.

"Captain, I need to stretch my legs. If there is no objection, I'd like to have this, uh, Kuryakin fellow accompany me. I will conduct the interview during this excursion, of course."

The directive clearly flustered the officer. "But sir, it is very cold. I doubt you would be comfortable."

"Young man, I lived through two world wars clothed in less than I'm wearing now. A bit of cold will not be a bother."

Soon, Alex Waverly had his wish.

oOo

While in the shadow of the Kremlin, neither man let on he knew the other. Once near the center of Red Square, Alex stopped. Kuryakin followed suit immediately.

In French, Alex said, "It is most gratifying to see you, Illyusha. You have grown into a man your father would be most proud of."

Following Alex's lead, Kuryakin replied in French, "Thank you, Sasha. It is my pleasure to see you again."

"As far as I'm concerned, young man, there is no need for an interview. I want you to represent your country in U.N.C.L.E."

"I do not think you want me, sir."

"Why is that, pray tell?"

"Almost two years ago, in Bruges, I was assigned to assassinate two American CIA agents."

"That was you?"

"Yes, sir. They were are of no true consequence to my country except they were American spies. I … missed, and in doing so, I disobeyed orders. U.N.C.L.E. and you should not have someone such as myself as an agent."

Alex studied the man who stood before him stiff with regret. "Lieutenant Kuryakin, you are _exactly_ what my organization is looking for in an agent. Will you accept my offer?"

Kuryakin broke into an uncharacteristic grin exuding surprise and relief. "I would be honored, Mr. Waverly."

Alex nodded sedately, successfully hiding his elation at this extraordinary man agreeing to join U.N.C.L.E. in its mission of world cooperation toward peace.

End of Part 3

Continued in _Numbers – Part_ _4_ _:_ _Assignments_

Thanks to CoriKay for her usual excellent beta.

07.30.2018 Short Affair Challenge; prompts = _print_ and _black_


	20. Numbers, Part 4 - Assignment

**Numbers – Part 4: Assignment**

 _July 1956, U.N.C.L.E. HQ, New York City_

"Excellent work, Mrs. Higgins," said Alexander Waverly. "Your value as my assistant continues to grow quite satisfactorily."

"Thank you, sir. Decoding your messages is, well, fun."

"Very good. That will be all for now. When Mr. Sloan arrives, please show him in immediately."

The young widow nodded and left.

As he waited for Sloan, he pondered the messages. Europe was still volatile and THRUSH was taking advantage of that. Harry Beldon was too self-involved and somewhat lazy, in Waverly's opinion, to see the big picture. Additionally, his sixth sense warned him Beldon was not fully trustworthy. He needed his own inside man in Northeast but there were no candidates.

Then there was Jules Cutter's report from the Survival School. To no surprise on Waverly's part, Illya Kuryakin was the top candidate in every skill. This past week, the Russian lad had broken two of Napoleon Solo's records. He chuckled at that as he wondered how the competitive Solo, an exceptional agent by anyone's standards, would take this news. _Perhaps I should partner the two_ _as_ _a trial. No doubt they would be formidable._ _First I must succeed in convincing_ _Washington to agree to_ _allow_ _UNCLE_ _to employ a_ _Soviet,_ _albeit former,_ _agent in this country_.

A soft throat-clearing dragged him from his rumination.

"Ah, Mr. Sloan. Please be seated."

The Section V chief said, "Good afternoon, sir," and handed him a printed copy of his report before sitting. "The sensors have been installed, programmed, and tested successfully. We're ready for the security badge assignments."

"Very good. Is there some sort of protocol for the assignments?"

"Not really, sir, except for your badge - number 1 for obvious reasons – and numbers 2 through 15 for other Section I personnel and Section II agents with the proper clearance. With your permission, I'll assign those as well as the others -"

Alex waved his hand to interrupt Sloan. "Of course. However, I shall assign numbers 2 and 11."

A bewildered Sloan said, "Uh, certainly, Mr. Waverly. And who will they be, sir? For the record?"

"I will let you know, Mr. Sloan, when I have decided. Good job with improving security. That will be all." Alex paid no heed to Sloan's leave-taking. Instead he was wondering why those two numbers had significance for him.

He momentarily stopped mulling over his reasons for personally assigning the numbers to open the intercom to his assistant. "Mrs., um, Higgins. Would you kindly hold any non-emergent contacts for, oh, the next 15 minutes?"

"Yes, Mr. Waverly. Will there be anything else?"

"No, thank you, not at this time." He released the lever and immediately reached for his pipe and humidor. As he carefully stuffed the pipe with his special blend, he returned to his deliberations about 2 and 11.

The eleventh hour … prime number … master number in numerology … end of the Great War on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month … atomic number of sodium ...

"Bah! This is ridiculous."

Yet he couldn't let it go. Thinking it might help, he wrote the number down and stared at it as if it might come alive and speak to him. Then he noticed how far apart he'd spaced the two digits. He now saw it as _two_ numbers, not a single number.

The heir apparent for the Section 1, Number 1 position.

Presumably, that would be the head of Section II. However, Dean Clark, though an excellent section chief, lacked the temperament and certain necessary skills.

Waverly lit a match and watched it flicker blue and yellow as he considered the list Section II agents. When the flame was millimeters shy of burning his fingers, he knew who would be assigned the 11 badge – Napoleon Solo.

The charming, empathetic, diplomatic, manipulative, brilliant strategist would be promoted to senior status within the next month – the fastest climb of anyone ever in that section across the organization. Yes, Solo would most likely be his successor.

Waverly blew out the match, a symbol of closure, almost. There was still the number 2 badge.

Figuring out the meaning of that badge came easier to him. It should be assigned to the agent who was the go-to for highly sensitive operations that required a particular kind of ruthlessness. Certainly Solo could be and was ruthless when it was called for, but he didn't have the laser-sharp edge to that trait he was looking for. He needed someone who had a personal connection, even compulsion, to protect Number 1 of Policy and Operations and some of the secrets that went with that position, someone who could carry out distasteful but necessary missions, could survive out of sheer spite and tenacious will despite the odds.

There was no doubt in Alex's mind that Illya Kuryakin should and eventually would wear that number. He would have to take it slowly. Then, because most people would assume that whoever wore that badge was next in line for Section I chief, he would have to time its assignment after most people had come to accept Solo as his likely successor.

He could only hope that Kuryakin would develop that personal connection with Solo that would keep them both alive while in Section II and carry over when Solo moved to Section I.

Waverly lit another match and touched it to the packed tobacco, sucking on the pipe stem until it was smoking. After several satisfying inhalations, he dialed the Section V head's extension.

"Sloan here."

"Mr. Sloan, please assign number 11 to Napoleon Solo. As for the 2, that will remain unassigned for now."

 _after The Vulcan Affair, 1964_

"Congratulations, Illya," Napoleon said as he pinned the number 2 badge on his partner's shirt. "You're the first official Number 2 in Section II."

"Thank you, Napoleon. It is curious, though, that such a position was virtually non-existent until now."

"I'm sure Mr. Waverly had his reasons, and I personally will leave it at that. Come on, let's go for a drink and dinner at Romano's. My treat."

"I would prefer a restaurant that THRUSH does not know you frequent. Last time there my dessert was rudely interrupted by a bullet meant for you."

the end

Thanks to CoriKay for her suggestions and ongoing encouragement.

This four-part serial will be compiled and expanded with the title _Numbers_.

08.06.2018 Short Affair Challenge; prompts = _lazy_ and _yellow_


	21. The Fugitives

**The Fugitives**

They were unfortunately outed by a mangy dog scrounging for food in the dark night.

"I despise canines," growled Illya as the barking alerted the THRUSHmen to their presence. The enemy had been busy unloading illegal drugs from several boats in the harbor at Castle Danger, a hamlet on the Minnesota shore of Lake Superior. That activity ceased as they took up arms and began firing their standard THRUSH rifles into the woods above them.

"Dogs will be," Napoleon uttered as he tried to shoo away their nemesis with one hand while firing sleep darts with the other. "Retreat, Ill-" A bullet to his left shoulder silenced any further speech and sent him to his knees.

Illya continued shooting as he helped Napoleon to his feet. Thanks to the adrenaline pumping through him, he didn't feel the bullet pierce his side and another scrape his thigh. He only noticed that Napoleon seemed heavier.

Napoleon recovered enough to resume shooting. Between the two of them, they felled every armed person who hadn't taken cover.

"Go!" shouted Napoleon. He put his right arm around Illya's shoulder.

Another shot from the harbor grazed Napoleon's head, plummeting him into unconsciousness.

Illya struggled to keep Napoleon afoot as he turned to identify the shooter. Too busy celebrating his shot to take cover again, the THRUSH collapsed from Illya's dart to his neck.

Determination to get Napoleon to help and safety propelled Illya to push forward despite growing awareness of his own wounds. He dragged his friend to the highway and finally to their rental car partially concealed in a ditch.

Illya wrestled Napoleon into the back seat. He paused to recover from the exertion and control the increasing pain. He heard what sounded like several people crashing through the trees. Line of sight wasn't an issue – yet. He staggered to the driver's door. Seconds later, he was gunning the engine and heading south to Two Harbors, 11 long miles away.

It quickly became apparent that he'd never make it there. Driving off the road and off a cliff into the lake was a very real probability. He almost succeeded when the car edged to within a few inches of the minimal lakeside shoulder.

He shuddered when he realized what had drawn him back to full awareness: a siren moving north at great speed. _Local sheriff? Did THRUSH call him?_ He shuddered again at the possibility that the law had THRUSH connections.

Luckily, he spied a nearly hidden turnoff on the right. He pulled in and doused the lights well before the advancing car passed.

Though the night was black, Illya's vision darkened more until he heard a groan of misery from the backseat. It was the impetus he needed to stay alert. His vision cleared to reveal a slender slit of yellow light ahead. Turning the lights back on, he slowly drove up the steep, rutted road. "Might be help, Napoleon," he whispered, more to reassure himself than his friend. Sometime during the journey, the light vanished.

He stopped just shy of the rear bumper of a Nash Metropolitan parked in front of a simple cabin. He fished the flashlight out of the glove compartment and used it to find his way to the front door.

The two porch steps seemed liked two thousand. Using the flashlight, Illya knocked on the door before leaning heavily on it. "Please," he said, voice cracking, "my friend is in need of assistance." Then he slid down the door, unconscious before becoming a heap on the splintered decking.

oOo

The man inside debated with himself. Should he risk helping these people who might be chasing him or should he follow the oath he had taken so many years ago?

The oath won, as he knew it would. With only a flickering candle shedding any light, he opened the door and a slight body swathed in black from head to toe and with a blackened face, fell across the threshold. He dragged the man inside, rousing him.

"Thanks. Friend in car. Head, shoulder wounds." And he was out again.

The man chanced turning on the solitary overhead light so he could find his way to the friend.

Eventually, he had both men inside the cabin, placing them side by side on the dirty floor. He went through the pockets of the first man. His brow furrowed at the U.N.C.L.E. card identifying the man as Illya Kuryakin. _Is U.N.C.L.E. after me, too?_ The man immediately dismissed that notion as ridiculous.

The second man's ID gave his name as Napoleon Solo. He snorted, wondering if his middle name could possibly be any worse.

Delaying no longer, he cut the clothes from each agent and examined them thoroughly. In addition to their new wounds, there was plentiful evidence that these weren't their first. He was grateful that the cabin's owner valued being prepared with a variety of medical supplies. He began treating them, relishing using his skills as he had before his living nightmare began.

oOo

Illya stirred from the pain in his side and leg to find himself on the floor, covered with a clean wool blanket. He sensed Napoleon near him, sensed his steady breaths. He looked over to see his partner similarly covered but on a narrow bed. He sighed with gratitude and relief.

He felt someone hovering near him. He looked to find the good Samaritan squatting next to him. "Thank you," he croaked through a dry mouth.

"You're welcome. Glad I could help," the man said in a shy, gravelly voice.

Illya regarded him carefully. Flat-black hair, obviously colored. Dark brown eyes filled with compassion and concern. Medium Caucasian complexion. Regal nose. Dimpled chin. Sky-blue shirt patchy with blood – _ours, I presume_ – and faded denim jeans. He'd seen this man before. In several photographs.

Then he had it. A fugitive, like he and Napoleon were at the moment.

The man stood and backed away, having read the recognition on Illya's face.

"No cause for alarm. My partner and I are not involved in the search for Doctor Richard Kimble."

the end

copyright 2018

10.08.2018 Short Affair Challenge for Section VII. Prompts: _sky blue_ and _propel_

Thanks to CoriKay once again for her excellent beta.


	22. Protection from Harm, Part 1

**Protection from Harm – Part 1**

It frightened the hell out of Napoleon that Illya had almost been successful in slitting his own throat. What new heinous potion had this latest cabal of lunatic THRUSH scientists cooked up?

 _Earlier that day..._

They were scoping out the perimeter of the suspected THRUSH lab when Kuryakin spotted two THRUSHes aiming rifles at them. Illya shoved his partner down an embankment. Illya took both hits of THRUSH's version of sleeping-inducing darts, while Napoleon picked up an assortment of scratches and bruises and a nice goose egg on the back of his head. Of course, his suit was ruined from the tumble.

Fortunately the THRUSH agents didn't realize they encountered U.N.C.L.E.'s premiere team, so didn't bother with the effort to take Solo into custody. They left him in the ditch where he landed and dragged his sleeping partner to the moss-strung antebellum mansion.

After Napoleon regained consciousness a few hours later, he began the tedious search for his lost communicator. Fifteen minutes later, he smiled at the rhythmic beep – Illya had been able to activate his tracker.

It had quickly become apparent to Napoleon that this rescue wouldn't be simple or straightforward, what with numerous guards and a few white-coated people. He darted them all, only having to fight a few of the guards before they too fell.

He arrived at the lab to see Kuryakin wearing only his boxers and bound by one wrist, both ankles, and his head bound to a steel table. One of the three THRUSHes present was placing a combat knife in Illya's free hand.

Solo took great pleasure at dropping that THRUSH, though he wished it had been by bullet. He darted the other two on his way to Illya's side.

It chilled Napoleon to the bone to see the demented, single-minded expression on his partner's face as he manipulated the blade to suit his purpose.

Napoleon, his own throat so constricted that any sound was stifled, intentionally stuck his left forearm between Illya's throat and the knife. There was no pain yet, and the blood was welling up fairly rapidly. He could move his fingers. _Good; no major damage_.

A dazed Illya took several seconds to realize his throat was untouched.

Napoleon took advantage of the lull to back away and dart Illya in his side - to no effect.

Illya changed his hold on the knife and raised it in preparation to plunge it into his abdomen.

Napoleon's vocal cords opened, allowing him to shout, "Illya! No!"

The startled Russian paused long enough for Napoleon shoot him again.

This time, the drug worked. Illya released the knife, which nicked his skin as it fell to the floor.

Napoleon exhaled his relief loudly as he worked Illya's blood-slicked wrist back in its leather restraint. "Won't be long before you're free, my friend."

Next thing needing attention was his arm. He had to rummage through two big supply cabinets to find what he needed. In short order, he bandaged his wound with sterile gauze held in place with a tightly applied elastic wrap.

He opened the glass-fronted cabinet that held four shelves, each shelf home to medication bottles filled with one of four different colors of fluid. He took one bottle from each shelf and secreted them in his pants pocket. The rest he threw in the sink hard enough to break them. He found a book with notes and formulas and pocketed that as well.

He returned to Illya's side to examine the damage done. There were numerous cuts of varying depths and lengths on his left arm and torso, none serious but several that would need stitches. There were multiple needle tracks on the inside of his elbow. To go from these relatively harmless self-inflicted cuttings to throat-slashing, the last dose must have been much greater than the previous ones.

He silently cursed THRUSH for their all-too-frequent use of U.N.C.L.E. agents, especially his partner, as guinea pigs for their malevolent concoctions. The effect of this particular witch's brew was easy to deduce: the recipient was compelled to cause himself harm. Such a drug would give THRUSH a huge advantage in the field. _And not just the field_ , he added to his analysis.

Napoleon dressed Illya's wounds with gauze and tape. Taking a deep breath and keeping his gun handy in case he had to give Illya another dose, he unfastened the restraints on his ankles and head first, and lastly his wrists.

The skin, as Napoleon expected, was raw and briskly leaking serum and blood. _You were really trying hard, weren't you, tovarishch_. He wrapped the wrists and ankles but left the head abrasion open to the air.

"Can't go scandalizing the female population of Baton Rouge, IK," he said as pulled Illya's clothes from beneath the gurney he was on. Napoleon worked swiftly to get the slumbering man in his shirt and trousers.

Napoleon briefly stopped to deal with the dizziness from the continued blood loss, head injury, and increasing pain. His flagging energy reminded him they had to leave now because later they might not make it out.

He shoved his Special, almost empty of sleep darts, into the back of his trousers. He liberated Illya's weapon from its holster. "Hope you're not attached to those proletariat-approved Thom McAn shoes and everything else we're leaving behind." He threw Illya's jacket over his left shoulder then followed with the jacket's owner himself. In his right hand was his partner's gun, ready to shoot anyone getting in their way – including Illya the instant he stirred.

They made it to the property's edge despite several stumbles and the oppressive summer air that did its best to deprive Napoleon of energy and oxygen. His battered and stressed body pleaded for rest. As he started to give in, he heard shouts behind them.

"Damn!" he grumbled angrily. More adrenaline kicked in and he took off running, holding Illya even tighter against him. Realizing if they were captured, THRUSH would let Illya kill himself. This thought pushed him into overdrive.

 _to be continued_

Thanks to CoriKay, beta extraordinaire, for her many suggestions.

Section 7 Short Affair Challenge for 11.05.2018 for the prompts _grumble_ & _w_ _hite_


	23. Protection from Harm, Part 2

**Protection from Harm – Part 2**

Solo's luck was with him, and by extension Kuryakin's: they were just feet away from what appeared to be an arboretum that wasn't fenced in. Between the weeping willows and magnolia trees, he was sure he could find one with enough low-hanging foliage to conceal them.

Using his jacket sleeve, Napoleon wiped away the sweat cascading down his forehead and blurring his vision. Dehydration was compounding the dizziness he was having from the head bump. His struggle to breathe air heavy with water vapor was becoming greater by the second. Illya was harder to hold on to because the intense humidity was making him as slippery as an eel. Both his legs and Illya seemed to be gaining weight exponentially. Despite the grave situation they were in, he was beginning to drag his feet. The shouting voices behind them spurred him to find a suitable hiding tree fast.

Some yards into the arboretum, he found, off to his right, a magnolia tree whose branches were laden with thick green leaves that touched the ground. _That should work_. The downside was the heavily redolent flowers threatening to make the nausea he'd been keeping in check rush forward in full bloom. He choked it back and hoped the scent didn't stimulate the same reaction in his partner.

His first step toward the tree found his dragging foot catching on an unseen tree root, sending the partners to the ground overrun with decaying plant life. As they fell, Napoleon tossed his weapon then cradled Illya's head in his freed palm. They hit with a thud, Napoleon's weight crushing a sizable portion of Illya. Illya simply exhaled audibly.

 _Now my bruises have bruises_ , he complained silently. But he'd rather have that than a head injury for his friend. "Sorry, _tovarishch_ ," he said as he rolled off Illya. Too fatigued and pained to stand, he began to crawl toward the gun. The next thing he knew he was on his back, opening his eyes to see Bertram Fraiser, a THRUSH mole he'd ferreted out years ago in Toronto.

"Well, well," said Fraiser, his yellowed teeth bared in a savage grin, "if it isn't Napoleon Solo himself, finally awake." His THRUSH-issued rifle was aimed at Napoleon's mid-section.

Napoleon, shocked that he'd been unaware of blacking out, cleared his throat and smiled Cheshire-cat-like. "Wasn't expecting to see you south of the border, Bertie. Wish I could say it's good to see you. But you'd know that would be a lie." There was one other THRUSH, rifle trained on him and standing between him and Illya. He raised his trunk and supported himself with his forearms.

"I'm delighted to see _you_ , Nappy. Imagine my surprise when the lead at this facility called Central with the latest subject's ID. Someone there was familiar with the name and his status, not his appearance."

Solo almost gasped when out of the corner of his eye he saw that test subject abruptly sit up. Illya seemed to be getting his bearings. _Is_ _it_ _finally_ _wearing off?_ He forced himself not to change his respiratory pattern or look directly at his partner. He was astounded that the THRUSHes still weren't paying any attention to Kuryakin. He had to do something quickly, before Illya resumed hurting himself to death. His plan was to carefully maneuver himself into a better position to disarm both men using his feet. He prayed his reaction time would be fast enough, given he certainly would be slower than usual. In the meantime, he had to keep them off balance.

"Ah, so I see THRUSH Central continues to fail to remedy a big mistake."

"What the hell do you mean by _that_ , Nappy?" Fraiser asked, defensiveness in his angry question.

Napoleon started the tedious process of inching into position. "Central doesn't require that all personnel to recognize on sight U.N.C.L.E.'s top two field agents," he replied matter-of-factly. "That's bad for business." He paused for effect. "You know, Bertie, I've always thought it would be ... fun to have my face on a wanted poster," Solo said, a hint of whimsy in his voice. "Make sure my better side is photographed, would you?"

The turncoat grunted his disdain. "I've been wanting payback ever since you outed me. Because of you I was assigned to this subtropical hellhole. Now I have the chance for revenge. Central wants you alive, but I'm pretty sure you're going to die while escaping." He raised his rifle and aimed it at Solo's head. "Your little friend there – Illya something-Russian, isn't it? - will be going back to the mansion to complete the rest of his shortened life." Fraiser laughed maniacally at his joke.

"Seems you have me at a slight disadvantage, Bertie. How about we strike a bargain, eh? U.N.C.L.E. let you go free, so how about letting Kuryakin go free now and I'll be your guinea pig."

Fraiser laughed again. "That's a win for me and a double lose for you, Nappy! Kury-whatever will probably kill himself the minute he wakes up and you'll be doing the same soon enough, whether it's from a bullet I put in you or one you put in yourself."

"Oh, I doubt that, Bertie. The drug isn't influencing him any longer. He's just exhausted." Napoleon felt a flash of hope when he saw doubt fly across Fraiser's face. Oddly enough, Bertie didn't even look at Illya. Napoleon fractionally re-positioned his butt again, so close to the angle his legs needed.

That was when Illya vaulted to his feet and reached for the rifle held by the unnamed THRUSH.

Napoleon, giving nothing away to the THRUSHes despite the elephantine squeeze in his chest, cursed soundlessly as one of Illya's broad, strong hands connected hard with the THRUSH's jaw. Simultaneously, his other hand encircled the barrel that would be the instrument delivering the bullet ending him.

 _to be continued_

Thanks to CoriKay, whose beta skills help my stories turn out much better. Any flubs are all mine.

Section 7 Short Affair Challenge for 11.12.2018 for the prompts _vault_ , _bargain_ & _yellow_


	24. Protection from Harm, Part 3

**Protection from Harm – Part 3**

Kuryakin sped into consciousness then bolted to a sitting position. His brain felt as if it were performing fiery, complex gymnastics, going from the parallel bars to the pommel horse to the still rings to the horizontal bar, never dismounting between each exercise.

He blinked a few times in an attempt to clear the stark black-and-white of his vision – it didn't occur to him to question why he saw no color – into which disturbing shades of grey had begun to intrude. It momentarily flustered him but he came to accept the change mindlessly.

Without warning, Illya once again was consumed with the desperate urge to harm himself. But something stopped him – a voice he knew so well but couldn't place. There was another voice that sounded bitter and callous and unfamiliar. When he heard that voice, his brain bristled like porcupine quills and the compulsion to scratch his eyes out returned with a vengeance. Then just as he would curl his hands into claw-like shapes, the known face soothed him, quelled his urgency for self-destruction.

The back-and-forth between the two voices made him feel as if he were riding an acoustic sine wave.

All through this, he kept hearing commands not quite subliminal, almost buried in the background of his auditory cortex: a broken record of _Kill yourself_.

 _Broken record? What is that?_

His brain somersaulted at the idea of expanding thought. _This is … different. New. I can think of something other than killing myself?_

Eventually he became aware that there were three men – two standing, both aiming weapons at the one man reclining on the ground, torso supported by flexed arms and with his legs stretched out before him. He knew that man, knew his black hair, knew that the dark grey eyes hid cunning and menace that only he could see behind the façade of affability. How he knew that he couldn't say, nor how he knew the man was his responsibility and seeing him filled him with a different sense of urgency. The need to defend that man was so intense that it overrode his need to kill or even hurt himself.

 _Who is he?_ That question led to a more perplexing one: _Who am_ _ **I**_ _?_

Then his fidgety brain switched gears again. _Defend him_.

Illya jumped to his feet soundlessly, but this time the motion caught the men's attention. Within that same second, he grabbed the rifle from the closest man, quickly turned it on him and fired twice into center mass. Before the other man with the hardened voice could swing his weapon around, Illya shot him twice as well but in the head.

The threat to the other man gone, Kuryakin's brain reignited with the coldly bitter need to shatter himself.

With all swift deliberateness, Illya swung the rifle around to point it accurately and steadily at himself, despite his sweaty grasp on the triggering mechanism. He looked at the nameless man who for some reason he trusted and loved as his "behind the soul" brother, whose dark grey eyes were turning … _Brown?_ He could feel his own eyes involuntarily fill with sorrow and a request for forgiveness.

####

For a split second, Napoleon thought the drug had worn off, but the instant Illya swung the gun around to aim at himself, his heart sank to the middle of the earth.

Frantic but controlled, Solo knew he couldn't get up in time to wrench the weapon away from his friend. Again a clod of fear paralyzed his vocal cords, so even shouting a simple syllable like _No_ or _Stop_ wasn't going to happen. Speaking probably wouldn't do any good anyway; he doubted Illya could even understand any spoken word.

Knocking the rifle from Illya's grip with his feet, as he had planned to do to the THRUSHes, was the only option left to him. If he failed, Napoleon acknowledged his spirit would be crushed. Always the optimist, he had faith that at least trying to stop such a catastrophe might ameliorate that unspeakable agony an infinitesimal amount.

He tried to ignore the plea and the sadness in Illya's glassy blue eyes – eyes that now held a trace of recognition – were sending him, disheartening him. At the same time, he subconsciously noted that his partner hesitated, something he hadn't done in the lab. Any hope he might have felt from that was dashed when Illya's expression became distant.

 _I need less than a second, Illya. Give it to me._

He swung his leg hard and fast, grunting from the pain that galloped through his body. His foot connected with the rifle's barrel a millisecond before Illya squeezed the trigger.

 _to be continued_

Thanks to CoriKay for the beta.

Section VII Short Affair Challenge for 11.19.2018 for the prompts _crush_ , _b_ _ristle,_ & _grey_


	25. Protection from Harm, Part 4

**Protection from Harm – Part 4**

The sound of rifle fire reverberated mercilessly in Solo's chest, as if the sonic blast was rupturing his heart and lungs.

The kick's momentum knocked him on his side, blocking his view of Kuryakin. Now, he hesitated to roll onto his back, afraid to witness the outcome, as if seeing it would make Illya deader than he probably already was.

His professionalism and personal need to face what had happened took over. Holding his breath, he peered over his shoulder.

A streak of blood started on Illya's left cheek and ended somewhere in the hair that sweat had colored caramel. Blood coated the detritus of the arboretum floor.

Then the chest expanded and fell. Napoleon finally exhaled, in part with relief. _Where there's life_ …

Too achy to stand, especially with a newly pulled groin, he got to his hands and knees and scuttled to his partner. He placed two trembling fingers on Illya's neck, closed his eyes, and pressed lightly.

There it was – a slow but strong pulse. He thanked all possible gods and a few demi-gods. _There's hope_ , he finished.

Quickly he determined the wound was a graze. There were powder burns on Illya's face and eyelid, indicating he had closed his eyes as he triggered the rifle. In all likelihood, that eye had avoided injury.

He had to get them out of here and fast. Fraiser undoubtedly didn't arrive with just one other THRUSH. The others would be converging on them too soon, thanks to the gunshots. Another swell of adrenaline cleared the haze rapidly invading his brain.

Napoleon couldn't carry Illya; he could barely walk himself. They'd both have to take pep pills – not a good idea given their physical condition but necessary for a chance at surviving. He wasn't carrying any, so he crawled over to Illya's jacket and searched it, counting on it being customized. Solo referred to these as "Harpo Marx" coats, because the over-sized jackets had extra pockets that held all sorts of odd but often helpful items.

He struck gold. He withdrew two small boxes - ammonia capsules and orange pills that identified them as a hybrid of pain killers and amphetamines – and handcuffs. Unfortunately there were no bandages or heme-stoppers, a recent Section VIII invention very early in field testing.

Back at Illya's side, Napoleon snapped open an ammonia capsule under Illya's nose. He responded too slowly to suit Napoleon, making him think the injury was worse than a graze. He sat back on his heels and waited. He unintentionally closed his tired eyes and only opened them when he felt his friend turn and move toward the nameless THRUSH.

He followed Illya's fast-moving hand and gasped when he saw the pale fingers encircle the hilt of a knife on the THRUSH's belt.

Napoleon shouted, "No!" but it didn't deter Illya, who had already drawn the knife from its scabbard. _How is he doing this?_ Solo gripped the armed hand with both of his. Although Illya had the weapon in a death grip, Solo eventually was able to pry it from his grasp.

He tossed the knife a dozen yards away then inhaled sharply as Illya's knee slammed into his kidney. With more agility and energy than he thought he possessed, Napoleon grabbed Illya's wrists, wrestling him to his back, then straddled him across the thighs. "Dammit, Illya." _Whoever devised this witches' brew should take it himself –_ _if I don't kill_ _him_ _first_.

"Ffffffffffff -" Illya stopped and angrily pursed his lips as he struggled to free himself.

Napoleon's chest tightened at Illya's prolonged stutter. "Come on, IK. Talk to me."

Furious, Illya's eyes met his partner's, and said in a voice coarse from disuse and dryness, "Ffffiddlesticks!"

A heartbeat passed before Napoleon made the connection and laughed heartily. "That's the best thing I've heard all day!" he exclaimed.

Solo, keeping his grip tight on his unexpectedly strong partner, he said conversationally, "I might have made a mistake in not taking my pill first then cuffing you, _tovarishch_." Then he did just that, fighting his squirming and bent-on-escaping friend the entire time until his hands were secured behind his back. Mentally, he apologized for fastening the steel circles on raw wrists only loosely covered with soggy dressings.

Napoleon picked out one of the pills from the other box and tried to feed it to a leery Illya, who clamped his lips closed. The American shrugged, then choked the pill down himself. He took another out and held it while his eyes asked Illya to take it.

Illya lost some of his wariness and opened his mouth slightly.

 _I'll take any amount of trust I can get_. Quickly, Napoleon shoved it in and held Illya's lips together until he saw the Russian grimace and swallow repeatedly. "Pretty bitter, isn't it?"

Napoleon gave them a few minutes for the pill to take effect. He stood, shaky at first, then retrieved their Specials. He replaced his at the small of his back and the other he kept in his right hand. Next he helped Illya up.

He took stock of their status. Dirt clung to them like mud, thanks to their heavy sweating. They could barely stand upright. Their wounds had bled through the dressings. One side of Illya's head was bloody. But they were alive.

 _Not for long_ , Solo thought as the sound of people yelling not too far behind them reached his ears. Illya gave no indication of noticing that at all.

"We have to go. _Now_." The defiant attitude emanating from Illya disturbed Napoleon, along with those frosty blue eyes darting between him and the knife, like a bee tempted by a flower. His partner was going to prove to be more difficult to deal with than he anticipated.

Illya glowered at him and tried to jerk away when Napoleon wrapped his left hand around Illya's right arm.

Solo would have none of that. "Forget the damn knife!" He gripped tighter and dragged his stumbling partner along at a brutal pace, any concern about Illya's bare feet pushed aside.

 _to be continued_

Thanks to CoriKay for a wonderful beta and continued support.

Section VII Short Affair Challenge for 11.26.2018 for the prompts _furious_ & _orange_


	26. Protection from Harm, Part 5

**Protection from Harm, Part 5**

They were nearly breathless when they stumbled into a sunny meadow carpeted with orange milkweed and swarming butterflies. Napoleon, so tired and still hurting despite the pill, wanted nothing more than to lie down among the flowers and sleep, like Dorothy in the poppy field.

It was Illya contorting himself to snatch the gun Napoleon had tucked in his waistband that dashed that dream. He picked up the pace.

About fifty yards later, Illya spied a coiled mass on a rock that would be near the man's right foot in just few more steps. He recognized the danger the diamond pattern and coloring represented. He had to protect the man from the threat, despite the fact that he had oppressed him physically, thereby preventing him from fulfilling his only purpose.

Illya yanked himself to the left as hard as he could, bringing the man down on him but safely away from the curled hazard.

"What the …?" Napoleon whispered. He looked at Illya beneath him, who then nodded at something behind him. He turned in time to see a rattlesnake slither off a rock in the opposite direction.

"Thanks. You saved me again. Do you know why?"

Illya studied him closely. Intense brown eyes in a face reddened with exertion and creased with worry stirred something in his brain. " _Moy brat_." He chuffed at the questioning look on the man's face. With effort, he translated to English. My … bbbbbrother," he said, a heavily accented half-statement, half-question.

Elated, Napoleon grinned, leaning in until forehead touched forehead. _You're coming back to me_.

"Well, _brother_ mine, the drug seems to be wearing off," Solo declared. "You seriously need to stop volunteering as a test subject for diabolical science projects." He rolled off Illya, in the process releasing his hold. Foggy-headed, he let his guard down and came to rest on his side, back to Illya.

Illya seized the opportunity to curl into a ball. He slid his cuffed hands under his butt, and slipped one leg then the other through them. He lunged for the gun at the man's back, freed it, and flipped the switch to bullets in one smooth motion.

Napoleon realized immediately what had happened but wasn't fast enough to stop his partner. _"_ No! _"_

Entire body vibrating, Illya gripped the gun with both hands then propped his forearms across the man's side for stability. He pointed the weapon toward the trees behind them and fired multiple times.

Napoleon had automatically turned his gaze to follow Illya's aim. He watched four THRUSHes at the edge of the meadow fall to earth, each with a new, and likely fatal, hole in their bodies.

Illya slumped off Napoleon and sat down hard on his rump. He inhaled sharply and held it while he stared wild-eyed at the gun that shook so hard Napoleon thought the clip would eject itself.

Napoleon rolled back until Illya's legs stopped his progress. Moving cautiously, he firmly clamped his hand around the hot muzzle, ready to wrench the gun from Illya. He felt the quakes, the uncertainty, in it, a reflection of his partner.

In his trademark calm command tone, Napoleon said quietly, "Breathe, Illya. Just breathe and let it _all_ go."

Illya exhaled as he felt something in his head snap, filling it with flame and smoke. He looked skyward and shrieked in agony until, long moments later, he freed himself from the weapon. The fire in his brain started burning itself out, the smoke clearing. He took a deep breath before turning back to regard the man - _Napoleon_.

Solo gulped at the blue eyes that once again recognized him, once again carried their impish humor he concealed from everyone except Napoleon and a few select others. In a voice taut with emotion, he said softly, "Welcome back."

"Nuh-nuh-Napoleon, uncufffff mmm ..." The innocent smile that belied the sinister tone abruptly changed to a tight-lipped grimace of pain in a face abruptly gone very pale. He gagged before getting sick all over Solo. Eyes rolling up, he blacked out, and fell forward into Napoleon.

The stench of the emesis almost triggered an episode for Napoleon, but he resisted. He laid his unconscious partner gently on the ground softened by the milkweed. Carefully, he removed his communicator and placed it between his teeth. Next he shrugged out of his soiled jacket and folded it so the worst of the discharge was on the inside. He then placed it with exceptional gentleness under Illya's still-bleeding head.

He began searching for the cuffs' key, only to recall he'd neglected to take it from Illya's jacket. _Damn._ _I'm a dead man if he wakes up while he's still cuffed_. He briefly considered darting Illya a time or two as soon as he showed signs of waking up, but thought better of it, since it would simply make the Russian even madder later.

Napoleon sighed. The pep in the pill was no longer a match for the extreme fatigue rapidly depleting his reserves. He doubted he even had the energy to open the communicator. Yet his intense urge to complete the assignment and ensure both of them survived had him opening a channel to HQ.

"Yes, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon gave Waverly a brief rundown of the mission to date and ended with, "Sir, this new potion is exceedingly dangerous. I highly recommend a team be pulled from the Shreveport operation to take care of this lab. I managed to secure samples and a notebook, but it's probably best to assume there is more."

"Indeed, Mr., uh, Solo. How are you and Mr. Kuryakin doing?"

Napoleon sighed as he looked at Illya's bleeding head, multiple cuts, deeply abraded wrists, ankles, and feet. He refused to catalog his own injuries.

"Both of us need medical attention. Illya may still be at risk for harming himself, and I don't think I ..." Solo stopped speaking, no longer able to generate one more word. _Protect us from the flying monkeys,_ _Toto_ , was his last thought before he passed out.

 _to be continued_

Thanks again to CoriKay for her beta. How about sending her a round of applause?

Section VII Short Affair Challenge for 12.03.2018 for the prompts _breathe_ , _oppress,_ & _black_


	27. Protection from Harm, Part 6

**Protection from Harm, Part 6**

In his speeding squad car running siren and lights, Deputy Beauford X. Pendergast, a former Section II and now a part-time Section III agent, led two ambulances toward the signal he had finally homed in on from Solo's communicator. He drove as far as he could in the area rich with plant life but poor with passable roads.

He cut the engine and was out immediately, his communicator in hand. The two pair of ambulance attendants were already hauling out litters and medical bags. "Okay, fellas, this way."

It was nearly a mile with twilight closing in before Pendergast spotted the gone-to-ground agents. He ran ahead of the medicos, ready to ensure they were still alive and to retrieve the samples and notebook unobserved by the civilians.

Pendergast went first to Solo. _Alive_ , he confirmed on watching his chest rise and fall. Keeping his back toward the approaching help, he whispered, "I seen you look and smell better, Napoleon." Efficiently he extracted the purloined items, then deposited them in his pockets and inside his shirt. It bothered him, though, that Napoleon didn't react at all. _Concussion?_

"Oo-ee, these guys've been through the wringer," declared Clancy, the most senior of the attendants. "Okay, Herb and Les, y'all take that scrawny fella and me and Harry'll take the other. And not a bad idea to use some of that VapoRub."

"Clancy, I need to talk with this one," Pendergast said, pointing to Solo.

"Okay, but I ain't sure this here'll wake 'im." He broke an ammonia capsule under Napoleon's nose.

Solo shook his head, grimacing from the new stink and the renewed awareness of pain. He tried but couldn't swat away the smell tormenting him. Moments later, the smell disappeared. He opened his eyes, blinking several times to clear blurry vision. His brow furrowed when he finally focused on the face hovering above him. "Toto?" he rasped.

Pendergast laughed boisterously. "Th'enemy been messin' with your head, Napoleon? It's me, pal, Bex."

It took Napoleon several seconds until his memory kicked in. "Bex" and a grateful smile was all he could produce.

"Your take is safe and now so are you and your Russkie. Hot damn! I get to meet a real Russian!"

Napoleon cleared his throat but the sound that came out was still rusty. "Watch him … danger … to himself … everyone."

"Waverly briefed me. _Fully_. Don't worry, ol' buddy. I'll cuff 'im to the stretcher. Anything else I gotta know?"

With no energy to speak off, Napoleon feebly mouthed a _No_ and returned to the kindness of unconsciousness.

"Let's load 'em up and get outta here." Pendergast made way for Clancy and Harry, staying close enough to help.

"Dang!" Herb uttered as he and Les lifted Kuryakin. "This here little guy's heftier than he looks."

Pendergast snickered. _Well, d_ _eception_ _ **is**_ _part of_ _a_ _n agent's_ _stock-in-trade_. "Careful, boys. Don't let that fool ya. He can be dangerous, too. They _both_ can."

Illya, very dimly aware, registered hands on him and micro-tremors tumbling helter-skelter through his body. The now-low-grade desire to hurt himself abruptly swelled, needling him to give in, so he fought the cuffs. It was that pain that sent him back to full oblivion.

The deputy observed the struggle. "One of y'all needs to ride in the back and watch 'im, but don't get too close."

oOo

Thirty-six hours later, Solo awoke disoriented and concerned about that fact. His head finally cleared enough that he recognized the familiar smells of a hospital. Memory flooded back along with worry about his partner. _Where …?_ In the same second, he knew: the muted groans characteristic of one angry, frustrated Russian came from his left.

He turned toward his left and there Illya was, in four-point leather restraints. Before he could speak, Illya slowly calmed down, never once opening his eyes, and then sighed. Not quite peaceful, but relaxed.

Napoleon called for the nurse. Skipping formalities he insisted that Illya be released from his bonds and that he'd see to it that the patient wouldn't harm anyone.

"And how do you propose to do that, Mr. Solo? You're not in the best shape yourself."

"He trusts me and will do as I say." _Maybe_. "Push my bed next to his. I take full responsibility."

The nurse, who'd been informed of the agents' situation and partnership, contemplated the proposal for several minutes. She exhaled resignedly. "Against my better judgment, I'll allow it. I'll have an orderly come in shortly. Until then, your partner stays restrained."

Solo flashed her an appreciative, sparkling smile. "Thanks."

oOo

Even beneath the sedation, the self-harm urge persisted but Kuryakin could feel it weakening its hold on him. He wondered bleakly if this would take as long to disappear as the fear gas did. Fortunately, Napoleon seemed to sense when the impulse reared its noxious head, and would gently squeeze his shoulder or arm, calming the compulsion to a manageable level.

In-between these little skirmishes – Illya was confident he was winning the war and was simply fighting a few resolute soldiers – he listened to Napoleon breathing and speaking soft reassurances to him.

oOo

Another day passed before Illya had the strength to open his eyes. Though Napoleon's eyes were closed, Illya could tell he was awake from the pattern of his respirations. His friend's right hand rested on Illya's right arm. His eyes searched for the arm he'd cut in lieu of opening his own throat, but he couldn't see it. His gaze returned to Napoleon's face, to see the hazel-brown eyes alight with pleasure.

"It sure is good to see your baby blues are no longer channeling Rasputin."

"I'm adept at hiding such things."

Napoleon chortled. "That you are."

"Napoleon," Illya said, turning serious, "thank you for keeping me out of … _my_ way."

"I owe you thanks, too. We're both out of harm's way. And the world. For now."

"That is the nature of our lives." Illya placed his left hand over Napoleon's and closed his eyes, tranquil for the first time in many hours.

the end

Section VII Short Affair Challenge for 12.10.2018 for the prompts _needle_ & _blue_


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